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| WINDY April night-mist swept the Square; | |
| Lights among the leafage swayed and flashed; | |
| Piquant bosky odors filled the air, | |
| Piquant as a Maenad’s flying hair | |
| Late the dripping dogwood buds had lashed. | 5 |
| Then three fared forth together: | |
| A wise old teacher of men, | |
| A poet who laughed with the weather, | |
| And a silent knight of the pen. | |
| They walked in the rain-witched park | 10 |
| While the hours grew small and dark, | |
| And their talk was light as a feather | |
| That Bacchus blows at a mark. | |
| |
| All around, the city-sounds were whist; | |
| All about, where branches laughed and leapt, | 15 |
| Glints of eyes looked out into the mist, | |
| Little, golden, dancing, rainbow-kissed: | |
| Little shapes and shadows flashed and crept. | |
| Then the sage: “O wonderful weather! | |
| Strange, eerie!” Then he of the pen: | 20 |
| “The pixies are out all together: | |
| Valpurgis Nacht—Bacchus—Amen!” | |
| He waved his arms and inclined | |
| His face to the night, joy-blind. | |
| Then the poet: “Oh, pluck me a feather | 25 |
| From the stretched gray wing of the wind!” | |
| |
| Over asphalt polished by the rain, | |
| Out of mist-swirls iris-splotched with light, | |
| Loomed a sudden beauty, marble, plain, | |
| Arched and sombre, fronting with disdain | 30 |
| All the springtime turmoil of that night. | |
| Then the sage: “The old Arch, in this weather, | |
| Needs garlands.” Then he of the pen: | |
| “The lost Roman thing! All together! | |
| Get branches—we’re Romans again!” | 35 |
| So they took each boughs in their hands, | |
| Obeying the ancient commands, | |
| When laurel put forth a green feather | |
| And Proserpine gathered her bands. | |
| |
| They marched in a grave, wild measure, | 40 |
| They waved their boughs; | |
| They were austere-faced for pleasure | |
| In the Spring’s house. | |
| The sharp wind gave them glee, | |
| The wind with a tang of the sea; | 45 |
| They drank it deep and at leisure | |
| As a nobly offered rouse. | |
| There were faint lights under their feet, | |
| Each light with a halo of pearl; | |
| There were lights in the night around, | 50 |
| Each blown-mist-tressed like a girl. | |
| Faster their feet beat, | |
| With a quick, glad sound. | |
| “Io, Bacchus! Honey-sweet!” | |
| “Io, Proserpine! | 55 |
| O golden! O divine! | |
| Loosed again from the ground!” | |
| |
| They lifted arms, they danced | |
| With quick breath; | |
| Below, around, lights glanced | 60 |
| As life from death. | |
| “Io, Proserpine is dead: | |
| But the Spring lives! | |
| Io, Bacchus,—where’s he fled? | |
| But the vine thrives!” | 65 |
| “Good hap to Aphrodite | |
| And her doves’ red feet: | |
| Redder than new wine | |
| Are the lips of my sweet!” | |
| “Io, Spring! | 70 |
| Young, new! | |
| Fairer for the vast | |
| Passionate old past: | |
| Io, Io, Spring | |
| I sing, I sing! | 75 |
| I am drunk with wine, with wine and the Spring!” | |
| |
| They danced, they swayed, | |
| The air sang | |
| Under their boughs; | |
| They laughed, they played | 80 |
| With the mist that stang | |
| Their mid-carouse. | |
| “Io, Spring’s blood’s on my face | |
| And in my hair!” | |
| “Io, Spring, magical maid, | 85 |
| For me forswear!” | |
| “The vine buds red, | |
| The willow gold, | |
| The lady birch is white | |
| And slim in the night: | 90 |
| Oh, make my bed | |
| With white and gold and red, | |
| Or ever the year grows old | |
| And cold! | |
| Io, Io! | 95 |
| And the tale of the frost is told!” | |
| |
| All around, the city-sounds were whist. | |
| Over asphalt polished by the rain | |
| Loomed the sombre Arch amid the mist; | |
| At its feet some boughs the Spring had kissed | 100 |
| Whispered to the driving wind’s refrain. | |
| Then three fared forth together: | |
| A wise old teacher of men, | |
| A poet who sang with the weather, | |
| And a silent knight of the pen. | 105 |
| They went arm-linked from the park | |
| That none be lost in the dark; | |
| And their hearts were light as a feather | |
| That Bacchus blows at a mark. | |
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