  WHEN fair Hyperion dons his night attire, Purple and silver, and his eyes with sleep Go trembling, and the lids a-kissing keep, And up he wings the plains of heaven the higher The starry meadows all uncurl and creep With twinkling shoots that tremble out and leap From buds into a blossoming of fire. When Spring, with primrose fillet round her brows, Drifts on the dawn into the hyacinth west, And flings fresh handfuls hoarded in her nest Of tasty flowers, to Flora making vows, The snow leaps down the mountain-side, and, press’d With weight of leaves, the earth at happiest, Rills into rivers thick from blossom-boughs. When Liris comes sometime at break of day To take the vervain garlands from the door, I’ve hung there fresh with dew an hour before, And chances with soft eyes to look my way, My heart brims out with love, and crowding o’er, The passion-songs and rhythms spring and pour, As storms in June, or blossom-boughs in May. |
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