SPRING LONGING.
What art thou doing here, O Imagination ? Go away, I entreat thee by the gods, as thou didst come, for I want thee not. But thou art come according to thy old fashion. I am not angry with thee—only go away.—Marcus Antoninus.
LILAC hazes veil the skies.
Languid sighs
Breathes the mild, caressing air.
Pink as coral s branching sprays,
Orchard ways
With the blossomed peach are fair.
Sunshine, cordial as a kiss,
Poureth bliss
In this craving soul of mine,
And my heart her flower-cup
Lifteth up,
Thirsting for the draught divine.
Swift the liquid golden flame
Through my frame
Sets my throbbing veins afire.
Bright, alluring dreams arise,
Brim mine eyes
With the tears of strong desire.
All familiar scenes anear
Disappear—
