The spirits of first flowers awoke and flung

From buried faces the close fitting hoods,

And listened to your piping till they fell,

The frail spring-beauty with her perfumed bell,

The wind-flower, and the spotted adder-tongue.

III.

All the day long, wherever pools might be

Among the golden meadows, where the air

Stood in a dream, as it were moorèd there

Forever in a noon-tide reverie,

Or where the birds made riot of their glee

In the still woods, and the hot sun shone down,

Crossed with warm lucent shadows on the brown

Leaf-paven pools, that bubbled dreamily,

Or far away in whispering river meads

And watery marshes where the brooding noon,

Full with the wonder of its own sweet boon,

Nestled and slept among the noiseless reeds,

Ye sat and murmured, motionless as they,

With eyes that dreamed beyond the night and day.

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