AN APRIL MORNING
Slow to the wanton sun's desire
The vestal-bosomed buds unfold,
Till poppies flaunt a silken fire,
And buttercups a glassy gold.
How gently fare the cloudy flocks
To pastures girdled by the seal
The lizards twitch along the rocks,
And subtle odors lure the bee.
There broods a peace upon the hills,
Too vast for morning winds to break,
Tho' murmurs throng the broken rills,
And voices of the woodland wake,
Till half I turn to hear again
The flutes of Arcady at dawn,
And rout of hurrying nymphs that feign
To dread the kisses of the faun.
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