The Winter departs the meadow green,
The tree-trunks in mellow voices sing
To break the icy chambers of the spring
And calmly set forth its glorious spleen.

Once trodden the paths now lay bare to feet,
The ancient blooms of daylight wanes
Towards the Eastern moon of long-gone days,
Where rest the Queen’s crown laurel-wreath.

Golden-glow the hills of the gentle winds
Breathe softly the wild spring of the sparrow,
The blaze of the red-brown fleeting arrow
Cruising steady the cloudless and ever-thin.

It is Spring in the incendiary evening-fires of old,
The days long-spread and hemmed with gold.