O SPIRIT of the Spring, delay, delay! Be chary of thy gifts; by slow degrees Roll back the leafy tide on forest trees; And in all fields keep thou a jealous sway, Lest the low grass break into sudden spray, And clover toss its purples on the breeze. Bind fast those lily-buds, that prying bees Shall have no entrance, murmur as they may. Scatter not yet the orchard's scented snows, Nor break the cage that holds the butterfly, Nor let the blow-ball wander up the sky: -- What! flown so lightly? By yon upstart rose, Summer is here with all her gaudy shows. O spirit of the Spring, good-by, good-by! |