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“A

BOON!" Hesperia cried, her hands

Stretched to the Powers apportioning The heritage of all the lands. "A fragrance for my crown of spring!

Far fairer is the jeweling
My sisters wreathe in scorn of snows

Where hyacinth and violet bring
The royal promise of the rose.
"Slighter the blossoms are that seek

My colder sky at your behest. Grant me one perfume rare, to speak

The dead years and the time unguessed!" "Seek for your boon on April's breast, Nor be faint-hearted," said the Powers.

“The dweller in the twilight West Shall wear the morning star of flowers." Star-flower, indeed, her lowly bed

Deep in the last year's leafage dun; Five finger-tips of dawn outspread

To herald the returning sun!

Such tints of pearl and rose in one Of yore across Ægean seas

From isle to waking isle did run O'er the empurpled Cyclades.

White clusters, shyly flushed with pride

And wonder of their April, start. In their strong foliage they abide

Like pity in a fearless heart,

Breathing to all the airs that part The half-fledged woodland swaying free

Sweetness to shame enchanter's art In Broceliande or Arcady; Sweetness that seems unplaced and wrong

In forests rude, that like to these Root in no Druid past of song,

Nor Eleusinian mysteries,

Wherein no nymph a satyr flees, No fay or goblin wing is furled

Dear fables, quaint diableries, The glamour of the elder world; Sweetness that therefore speaks of naught

But of the lore each heart doth learn, A breath of spring, a quickening thought,

Fires that from ashes wake and burn.

So Aprils unto Aprils yearn
Till, drooping down from less to less,

Life doth to dreams and fables turn, And fables to forgetfulness.

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