 | The pink book |  |
42
APHRILIS.
From the foam of the sea
Sprang she faerily
In the golden morning.
Rathely debonair,
Long she wandered, where
Vapours are most blue,
Sunshine is the rarest;
And they worshipped her,
For, of all they knew,
She was fairest.
Sprang she faerily
In the golden morning.
Rathely debonair,
Long she wandered, where
Vapours are most blue,
Sunshine is the rarest;
And they worshipped her,
For, of all they knew,
She was fairest.
Now i' the young sun
Is she just begun
To make merry,—
Aphrodite, here?
Aye! 'tis not quite clear
How she comes to hold
The ladyship of this season;
But 'twas given her, no doubt,
In the age of gold,
By a poet, who had been her
Votary, and, for his reason,
That's not past all finding out!
Leastways, one says so
Who hath seen her;
And,—he ought to know.
Is she just begun
To make merry,—
Aphrodite, here?
Aye! 'tis not quite clear
How she comes to hold
The ladyship of this season;
But 'twas given her, no doubt,
In the age of gold,
By a poet, who had been her
Votary, and, for his reason,
43
Leastways, one says so
Who hath seen her;
And,—he ought to know.
Hark, how the lark flings shrill
His song on the shining air!
Is it, O heart! a song he doth trill,
A song, or a worshipful prayer?
For violets are beginning to peer,
And the daises from the hill
Wink at the sun,
And the meads are putting on
Their gowns of apple green,
And all the woodlands thrill
In the presence of their queen,
With the brave, full life of this queen,—
This sweetest, this most dear,
First best-month of the year!
His song on the shining air!
Is it, O heart! a song he doth trill,
A song, or a worshipful prayer?
For violets are beginning to peer,
And the daises from the hill
Wink at the sun,
And the meads are putting on
Their gowns of apple green,
And all the woodlands thrill
In the presence of their queen,
With the brave, full life of this queen,—
This sweetest, this most dear,
First best-month of the year!
Sunshine,—flash of her smile,
Rain,—sweet rain of her tears,
Oh her shout, her sob,
Her bounteous wild heart-throb
As she runs swift-breathed through the budding wood!—
Breathless mirth, with her hair in the wind
And lightning in her eyes,
And her cheeks all flushed like wild roses!
Could she be fairer, Paphia,
On that far-off, holy day
When she came to the Cyprian strand?
All the world's love answers, “Nay!”
Rain,—sweet rain of her tears,
Oh her shout, her sob,
Her bounteous wild heart-throb
44
Breathless mirth, with her hair in the wind
And lightning in her eyes,
And her cheeks all flushed like wild roses!
Could she be fairer, Paphia,
On that far-off, holy day
When she came to the Cyprian strand?
All the world's love answers, “Nay!”
| The pink book | |