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comes
the wind of spring
on empty lanes
strange is everything
in its train
it
has made its nest
where weeping is there
and taken its rest
in tousled hair
it
trembled under
acacia leaves
and cooled the members
that hotly breathed
lips
with laughter
hath it plied
the witcher and watcher
in fields espied
through
flutes it slid
a sobbing cry
in red twilit
it flew right by
in
silence it flew
through whispering chambers
and declining blew
the lanterns into embers
comes
the wind of spring
on empty lanes
strange is everything
in its train
through
the even
empty lanes
pale shades
move in its breathing
and
the scent
which it brought
whence it came
yesternight
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