While up and down the earth men pant and plod,

      March, laughing at the showers and days unsteady,

      And whispering secret orders to the sod,

      For Spring makes ready.

      And slyly when the world is sleeping yet,

      He smooths out collars for the Easter daisies,

      And fashions golden buttercups to set

      In woodland mazes.

      Coif-maker fine, he worketh well his plan.

      Orchard and vineyard for his touch are prouder.

      From a white swan he hath a down to fan

      The trees with powder.

      While Nature still upon her couch doth lean,

      Stealthily hies he to the garden closes,

      And laces in their bodices of green

      Pale buds of roses.

      Composing his solfeggios in the shade,

      He whistles them to blackbirds as he treadeth,

      And violets in the wood, and in the glade

      Snowdrops, he spreadeth.

      Where for the restless stag the fountain wells,

      His hidden hand glides soft amid the cresses,

      And scatters lily-of-the-valley bells,

      In silver dresses.

      He sinks the sweet, vermilion strawberries

      Deep in the grasses for thy roving fingers,

      And garlands leaflets for thy forehead's ease,

      When sunshine lingers.

      When, labour done, he must away, turns he

      On April's threshold from his fair creating,

      And calleth unto Spring: "Come, Spring – for see,

      The woods are waiting!"

      There lies within a great museum's hall,

      Upon a snowy bed of carven stone,

      A statue ever strange and mystical,

      With some fair fascination all its own.

      And is it youth or is it maiden sweet,

      A goddess or a god come down to sway?

      Love fearful, hesitating, turns his feet,

      Nor any word's avowal will betray.

      Sideways it lieth, with averted face,

      Stretching its lovely limbs, half mischievous,

      Unto the curious crowd, an idle grace

      Lighting its marble form luxurious.

      For fashioning of its evil beauty brought

      The sexes twain each one its magic dower.

      Man whispers "Aphrodite!" in his thought,

      And woman "Eros!" wondering at its power.

      Uncertain sex and certain grace, that seem

      To melt forever in a fountain's kiss,

      Waters that whelm the body as they gleam

      And merge, and it is one with Salmacis.

      Ardent chimera, effort venturesome

      Of Art and Pleasure – figure fanciful!

      Into thy presence with delight I come,

      Loving thy beauty strange and multiple.

      Though I may never close to thee draw nigh,

      How often have my glances pierced the taut,

      Straight fold of thine austerest drapery,

      Fast at the end about thine ankle caught!

      O dream of poet passing every bound!

      My thought hath built a fancy of thy form,

      Till it is molten into silver sound,

      And boy and girl are one in cadence warm.

      O tone divine, O richest tone of earth,

      The beautiful, bright statue's counterpart!

      Contralto, thou fantastical of birth,

      The voice's own Hermaphrodite thou art!

      Thou art the plaintive dove, the linnet rare,

      Perched on one rose tree, mellow in one note.

      Thou art fair Juliet and Romeo fair,

      Singing across the night with one warm throat.

      Thou art the young wife of the castellan,

      Chaffing an amorous page below her bower, —

      Upon her balcony the lady wan,

      The lover at the base of her high tower.

      Thou art the yellow butterfly that swings,

      Pursuing soft a butterfly of snow,

      In spiral flights and subtle traversings,

      One winging high, the other winging low;

      The angel flitting up and down the gold

      Of the bright stair's aerial extent,

      The bell in whose alloy of mighty mould

      Arc voice of bronze and voice of silver blent

      Yea, melody and harmony art thou,

      Song with its