Girdled with gold, my little lady's bower
Stands at the portals of a world in flower;
And on her shield the changing blossoms mark
How the spring grows each day from dawn to dark.
When forth she moves, her dainty foot is set
On cowslip, hyacinth, and violet;
And all day long the woodland minstrels ring
Changes of measure for her pleasuring.
And all night long a passionate music stirs
Without her walls the guardian belt of firs;
Hushed in their waving boughs, the low winds brood,
Murm'ring the sea's song for an interlude.
Within the darkness does my lady wake,
To hear her nightingales their music make,
And musing, Weep and wonder at the pain
That breaks through all the rapture of their strain?
Does the dawn rouse her with its murmurous flight
Of swallows glancing grey against the light,
To dream again of all the joys that lie
Folded within the new day's mystery?
Nay, through her world of blossom, flower-wise,
My lady moves with unawakened eyes;
She heeds not if the apple bloom be shed,
Nor if the hours pass by rose-garlanded.
No soft hopes greet her with first lily bells,
No memories smite her in wan asphodels,
Nor hears she when the autumn winds are borne
By their low cadence in the summer corn.
While thus unmoved my lady keeps her state,
Without her walls I year-long watch and wait;
Till she awake and summon me to bring
Low to her feet the secret of the spring.