Primavera
Rustle of rain, bird-song and fitful breeze,
And flower-like dancers, faerie shapes that seem
Dryad and faun, beneath whose pale feet gleam
Vale-lilies, violets, anemones;
Here glides a nymph the satyr cannot seize,
Diaphanous as dawn her garments stream —
Elusive, luminous, an April dream,
She fades through orange and white myrtle trees.
And yet how wistfully the dancers cling;
And what vague weariness these spirits wear,
Scattering wild-rose petals as they pass:
Is it for Youth's short dream — the dream of Spring,
Lovely as Flora through rain-scented air,
Fleet as the dryad over rose-strewn grass?