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.