Spring’s hesitating with the heads of daisies,
Faltering with feathers of the turtle-doves,
Dangling among the duckweek in the brook,
So the green-shaded wood becomes
A kingdom for the dalliance of flowers.
Soon will the meadow weary of their lies,
The burdenless and innocent young grass
Drunk with sweet odours, soft and warm and white.
Soon in the swimming twilight
I’ll hear the sigh of some belated girl
Who plucks a dandelion and passes on.