There are buds and small flowers—
Flowers like snow-flakes,
Blossoms like rain-drops,
So small and tremulous.
Therein a fetter
Shall shackle and bind me,
Shall weigh down my shouting
With their delicate perfume!"
But who this frail fetter
Shall forge on an anvil,
With hammer of feather
And anvil of velvet?
Past the horizon,
In the palm of a valley,
Her feet in the grasses,
There is a maiden.
She smiles on the flowers,
They widen and redden,
She weeps on the flowers,
They grow up and kiss her.
She breathes in their bosoms,
They breathe back in odours;
Inarticulate homage,
Dumb adoration.
She shall wreathe them in shackles,
Shall weave them in fetters;
In chains shall she braid them,
And me shall she fetter.
I, the invincible;
March, the earth-shaker;
March, the sea-lifter;
March, the sky-render;
March, the lion-throated.
April the weaver
Of delicate blossoms,
And moulder of red buds—
Shall, at the horizon,
Its ring of pale azure,
Its scurry of white clouds,
Meet in the sunlight.