Early Spring

Quick through the gates of Fairyland The South Wind forced his way. 'Twas his to make the Earth forget Her grief of yesterday. "'Tis mine," cried he, "to bring her joy!" And on his lithesome feet In haste he slung the snowdrop bells, Pushed past the Fairy sentinels, And out with laughter sweet. Clear flames of Crocus glimmered on The shining way he went. He whispered to the trees strange tales Of wondrous sweet intent, When, suddenly, his witching voice With timbre rich and rare, Rang through the woodlands till it cleft Earth's silent solitude’s, and left A Dream of Roses there!