Ah! the golden mouth is stopped,
That so sweet was with its song,
Bright, and vehement as fire.
Grieve we, as a star had dropped
Out of Heaven's singing throng,
For the lord of our desire.
Bring we blossoms, lilies bring,
Such frail blooms as lured of old
Proserpina from the Hours:
All this April's lavishing,
Flame of sudden crocus-gold,
Sudden foam of starry flowers.
Spring hath slain the lord of Spring:
He, whose song was fire and dew,
Lieth in her lap, and slain
By her, whom he loved to sing,
As she came, with sandals blue,
Through the shifting rays, and rain.
Ah! the golden mouth is stopped
Whence the whole of April's song,
All her sudden, wilful fire,
All her stores of honey dropped.
Yet about our ways they throng,
Words he winged with his desire.