Shy, amorous,
The brown-haired dryads of the apple trees
I saw this day.
Shy were they in among the blowing blossoms;
Their white knees
Hidden by blossom tapestries
The wind had woven, weaving cunningly.
Yet their arms and faces,
And shoulders bloomy pink, by swaying spray
I saw, and their long glances
In the sunny garden places
Where the sunlight dances,
Held me in sweet trances;
While they begged me come to play,
Bathe with them in blossoms,
On a white spring day!
