The dawn is smiling on the dew that covers
The tearful roses; lo, the little lovers
That kiss the buds, and all the flutterings
In jasamine bloom, and privet, of white wings,
That go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
With muffled music, murmered far and wide.
Ah, the spring time, when we think of all the lays
That dreamy lovers send to dreamy mays,
Of the fond hearts within a billet bound,
Of all the soft silk paper that pens wound,
The messages of love that mortals write
Filled with intoxication of delight,
Written in April and before the May time
Shredded and flown, playthings for the winds play time
We dream that all white butterflies above,
Who seek through clouds or water souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair,
To fit to flowers, as kinder and more fair.
Are but torn love-letters, that through the skies
Flutter, and float, and change to butterflies.
- Andrew Lang
