Spring Longing.

What art thou doing here, O Imagination?    Go away I entreat thee by the gods, as thou didst come, for I want thee not.    But thou art come according to thy old fashion.    I am not angry with thee - only go away.

- Marcus Antoninus

Lilac hazes veil the skies.

Languid sighs

Breathes the mild, caressing air.

Pink as coral's branching sprays,

Orchard ways

With the blossomed peach are fair.

Sunshine, cordial as a kiss,

Poureth bliss

In this craving soul of mine,

And my heart her flower-cup

Lifteth up,

Thirsting for the draught divine.

Swift the liquid golden flame

Through my frame

Sets my throbbing veins afire.

Bright, alluring dreams arise,

Brim mine eyes

With the tears of strong desire.

All familiar scenes anear

Disappear -

Homestead, orchard, field, and wold.

Moorish spires and turrets fair

Cleave the air,

Arabesqued on skies of gold.

Low, my spirit, this May morn,

Outward borne,

Over seas hath taken wing:

Where the mediaeval town,

Like a crown,

Wears the garland of the Spring.

Light and sound and odors sweet

Fill the street;

Gypsy girls are selling flowers.

Lean hidalgos turn aside,

Amorous-eyed,

'Neath the grim cathedral towers.

Oh, to be in Spain to-day,

Where the May

Recks no whit of good or evil,

Love and only love breathes she!

Oh, to be

'Midst the olive-rows of Seville!

Or on such a day to glide

With the tide

Of the berylline lagoon,

Through the streets that mirror heaven,

Crystal paven,

In the warm Venetian noon.

At the prow the gondolier

May not hear,

May not see our furtive kiss;

But he lends with cadenced strain

The refrain

To our ripe and silent bliss.

Golden shadows, silver light,

Burnish bright

Air and water, domes and skies;

As in some ambrosial dream,

On the stream

Floats our bark in magic wise.

Oh, to float day long just so!

Naught to know

Of the trouble, toil, and fret!

This is love, and this is May:

Yesterday

And to-morrow to forget!

Whither hast thou, Fancy free,

Guided me,

Wild Bohemian sister dear?

All thy gypsy soul is stirred

Since yon bird

Warbled that the Spring was here.

Tempt no more!    I may not follow,

Like the swallow,

Gayly on the track of Spring.

Bounden by an iron fate,

I must wait,

Dream and wonder, yearn and sing.