In the Valley

Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring     To the white-footed Spirit of Snow,     On the wings of the tempest take wing,     And leave me the valleys, and go.     And, straightway, the streams were unchained,     And the frost-fettered torrents broke free,     And the strength of the winter-wind waned     In the dawn of a light on the sea.     Then a morning-breeze followed and fell,     And the woods were alive and astir     With the pulse of a song in the dell,     And a whisper of day in the fir.     Swift rings of sweet water were rolled     Down the ways where the lily-leaves grew,     And the green, and the white, and the gold,     Were wedded with purple and blue.     But the lips of the flower of the rose     Said, where is the ending hereof?     Is it sweet with you, life, at the close?     Is it sad to be emptied of love?     And the voice of the flower of the peach     Was tender and touching in tone,     When each has been grafted on each,     It is sorrow to live on alone.     Then the leaves of the flower of the vine     Said, what will there be in the day     When the reapers are red with my wine,     And the forests are yellow and grey?     And the tremulous flower of the quince     Made answer, three seasons ago     My sisters were star-like, but since,     Their graves have been made in the snow.     Then the whispering flower of the fern     Said, who will be sad at the death,     When Summer blows over the burn,     With the fierceness of fire in her breath?     And the mouth of the flower of the sedge     Was opened to murmur and sigh,     Sweet wind-breaths that pause at the edge     Of the nightfall, and falter, and die.