Her flute’s clear solo greets the maiden day—
Above the waking of melodious May,
Its notes are like a trellised flight of flowers.

The chirping birds whose orchestra of bills
Accompanies rain—the tea-rose best distills—
And then the smell of earth between the showers!

From garden bright, in drops of crystal gown’d,
I hear the breezes make a leafy sound
Through vibrant buzz of flies that seek the shade—

… And wonder whether—as sweet noon reposes—
The roses make the air, the air the roses
Within the house kept cooler than a glade.

Against the wall, upon the sunny side,
Their fruitful branches fixed and crucified,
The pear-trees stretch out arms in martyred line—

While we that surfeit, nap, as calyx’d bees,
Who murmurs, still pursuing imageries
… «Like Jewish candelabras». (relight mine!)

Rising as to welcome a newcomer
The flute pipes to the first eve of the summer
—Nocturnal nature moves to minor bars—

A golden crescent in a druid’s tree
Reminds her that the forest has a key—
And out she goes to serenade the stars!

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