  THE mild noon air of Spring again Lapped shimmering in that sea-lulled lane. Hazel was budding; wan as snow The leafless blackthorn was a-blow. A chaffinch clankt, a robin woke An eerie stave in the leafless oak. Green mocked at green; lichen and moss The rain-worn slate did softly emboss. From out her winter lair, at sigh Of the warm South wind, a butterfly Stepped, quaffed her honey; on painted fan Her labyrinthine flight began. Wondrously solemn, golden and fair, The high sun's rays beat everywhere; Yea, touched my cheek and mouth, as if, Equal with stone, to me 'twould give Its light and life. Contented not. With 'Why' distraught. Whom asked you then your riddle small?— 'If hither came no man at all 'Through this grey-green, sea-haunted lane, Would it mere blackened nought remain? Strives it this beauty and life to express Only in human consciousness?' Oh, rather, idly breaks he in To an Eden innocent of sin; And, prouder than to be afraid, Forgets his Maker in the made.
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