Tripping over mountain-tops and skipping over seas,
I come no one knows from where,
And bring tidings of spring’s coming,
As it were,
To the autumn-weary buds,
Lining their nests with the silver
Of white lilies.
I roll on the grass and frolic
With the tulip-branches,
Coaxing smells and colours flowers out of them.
Gently do I stroke the petals
Of the tulip and the rose,
Lest their stems should bend under my weight.
When a poet breaks into song
With the frenzy of love’s sorrow,
With his breath I join my own.