HER GARLAND

O thou who comest to our wintry shade

Gay and light-footed as the virgin Spring,

Before whose shining feet the cherries fling

Their moony tribute, when the sloe is sprayed

With light, and all things musical are made:

O thou who art Spring's daughter, who can bring

Blossom, or song of bird, or anything

To match the youth in which you stand arrayed?

Not that rich garland Meleager twined

In his sun-guarded glade above the blue

That flashes from the burning Tyrian seas:

No, you are cooler, sweeter than the wind

That wakes our woodlands; so I bring to you

These wind-blown blossoms of anemones.