Said the yellow-haired Spirit of Spring
To the white-footed Spirit of Snow,
-On the wings of the tempest take wing,
And leave me the valleys, and go.�
And, straightway, the streams were unchained,
And the frost-fettered torrents broke free,
And the strength of the winter-wind waned
In the dawn of a light on the sea.
Then a morning-breeze followed and fell,
And the woods were alive and astir
With the pulse of a song in the dell,
And a whisper of day in the fir.
Swift rings of sweet water were rolled
Down the ways where the lily-leaves grew,
And the green, and the white, and the gold,
Were wedded with purple and blue.

But the lips of the flower of the rose
Said, -where is the ending hereof?
Is it sweet with you, life, at the close?
Is it sad to be emptied of love?�
And the voice of the flower of the peach
Was tender and touching in tone,
-When each has been grafted on each,
It is sorrow to live on alone.�

Then the leaves of the flower of the vine
Said, -what will there be in the day
When the reapers are red with my wine,
And the forests are yellow and grey?�
And the tremulous flower of the quince
Made answer, -three seasons ago
My sisters were star-like, but since,
Their graves have been made in the snow.�

Then the whispering flower of the fern
Said, -who will be sad at the death,
When Summer blows over the burn,
With the fierceness of fire in her breath?�
And the mouth of the flower of the sedge
Was opened to murmur and sigh,
-Sweet wind-breaths that pause at the edge
Of the nightfall, and falter, and die.�