The dawn is smiling on the dew that coversThe tearful roses; lo, the little loversThat kiss the buds, and all the flutteringsIn jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings,That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,With muffled music, murmured far and wide.Ah, the Spring time, when we think of all the laysThat dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,The messages of love that mortals writeFilled with intoxication of delight,Written in April and before the May timeShredded and flown, playthings for the wind's playtime,We dream that all white butterflies above,Who seek through clouds or waters souls to love,And leave their lady mistress in despair,To flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair,Are but torn love-letters, that through the skiesFlutter, and float, and change to butterflies.
