Love and the MaidensToC

ToC

 

He seemed asleep; his wings were wet

With dew; he lay among the flowers,

Sweeter than Spring; his radiant curls

With primrose and with violet

Were crowned; and in a silent ring the girls

Watched, all an April morning's misty hours....

Not one dared wake him—yet each breast

Yearned to be pillow to a thing

So fair. 'How will he smile?' thought they,

'In waking?...' But between them pressed

One who with laughter bore the rogue away,

Ere they had touched a feather of his wing.

 

 

 

 

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