Spring

A Fragment.

Hildegard.

It is the time when everything
Is flusht with presage of the Spring,
When every leaf and twig and bud
Feels new life rushing like a flood
Through greening veins and bursting tips;
When every hour a sunbeam slips
Across a sleepy flower�s mouth,
And wakes it, babbling of the South;
When birds are doubtful where or how
To hang their nests on trunk or bough,
And all that is in wood or croft
Beneath an influence balmy-soft
Towards the light begins to strive,
Feeling how good it is to live!

Walther.

How beautiful thou standest there,
Thyself a prophet of the May!
The shining of thy golden hair
Would melt December�s snows away.
The roses on thy cheeks would woo
Forth envious blossoms from their sleeps.
And robins plume their breasts anew
To mock the crimson of thy lips.

Hildegard.

But where would be the golden tresses,
With ribands bravely intertwined
And where the roses, that thy praises
Have opened like a Summer wind,
Wert thou, my love, my Knight, not here,
To make these empty beauties dear?
The Spring would never deck her train
In such a fair and winsome wise
Did she not seek by smiles to chain
The sun her royal lover�s eyes.

1876.