Song Of The Spirits Of Spring.

I.             Wafted o'er purple seas,             From gold Hesperides,             Mixed with the southern breeze,              Hail to us spirits!             Dripping with fragrant rains,             Fire of our ardent veins,             Life of the barren plains,     Woodlands and germs that the woodland inherits.              II.             Wan as the creamy mist,             Tinged with pale amethyst,             Warm with the sun that kissed              Vine-tangled mountains             Looming o'er tropic lakes,             Where ev'ry air that shakes             Tamarisk coverts makes     Music that haunts like the falling of fountains.              III.             Swift are our flashing feet,             Fleet with the winds that meet,             Winds that, blown, billow sweet,              And with light porous,             Boom with the drunken bees,             Sigh with the surge of seas,             Rush with the rush of trees,     Birds and wild wings and of torrents sonorous.              IV.             Stars in our liquid eyes,             Stars of the darkest skies,             And on our fingers lies              Starlight; and shadows,             Unmooned, of nights that creep             Hide in our tresses deep,             And in our limbs white sleep     Dreams like a baby in asphodel meadows.              V.             Music of many streams,             Strength of a million beams,             Fire and sainted dreams,              Murmuring lowly,             Pulse on hot lips of light,             Which, what they kiss of blight,             Quicken and blossom white,     Raise to be beautiful, perfect, and holy.              VI.             Oh, will you sit and wait,             When fields, erst desolate,             Now are intoxicate              With life that flowers?             Purple with love and rife             With their fierce budded life,             Passion and rosy strife     Drained from warm winds and the turbulent showers?              VII.             Nay! at our feet you'll lie:             For the winds lullaby,             For our completest sky,              And largess flying             Of pinky pearls of blooms,             For the one bee that booms,             And the warm-spilled perfumes     Forget for a moment already we're dying!