Fair be the skin of thy Spring’s blush,
in wait the graze of lustful dew
Left to there stand and ponder still...
Born but once more, again anew...

Oh, but to touch the silken sleeve
upon the stem of thorn and green,
to harbor not the sigh filled rush...
In want but once, till once is seen.

And whence the vine does stoop to soil
and kiss the grasses lying low...
A maid shall wait till passion’s roil
as whispers trace the moon aglow.