Girdled with gold my little lady's bower
Stands at the portals of a world in flower,
And down her ways the changing blossoms mark
How the Spring grows each day from dawn to dark.
When forth she moves, her dainty foot is set,
On cowslip, hyacinth and violet,
And all day long the woodland minstrels sing
Changes of measure for her pleasuring.
And all night long a passionate music stirs
Without her walls — the darkened belt of firs;
Hushed in their waving boughs the low winds brood,
Murmuring the sea's song for an interlude.