A Mood of Pavlowa
THE soul of the Spring through its body of earth
Bursts in a bloom of fire,
And the crocuses come in a rainbow riot of mirth....
They flutter, they burn, they take wing, they
aspire. . . .
Wings, motion and music and flame,
Flower, woman and laughter, and all these the
She is light and first love and the youth of the
She is sandaled with joy . . . she is lifted and
She is flung, she is swirled, she is driven along
By the carnival winds that have torn her away
From the coronal bloom on the brow of the
May. . . .
She is youth, she is foam, she is flame, she is