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 Jasmine bloom, and privet, of white wings
that go and come, and fly, and peep and hide,
with muffled music, murmured far and wide,
Ah, the springtime, 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 wind's playtime
We dream that all white butterflies above,
who seek through clouds or waters
Souls to love,
And leave their lady mistress in despair
to flit to flowers, as kinder and more fair
Are but torn love letters, that through the skies,
Flutter, and float and change to butterflies....
