I

I heard the hylas in the bottomlands Piping a reed-note in the praise of Spring: The South-wind brought the music on its wing, As ’t were a hundred strands Of guttural gold smitten of elfin hands; Or of sonorous silver, struck by bands, Anviled within the earth, Of laboring gnomes shaping some gem of worth. Sounds that seemed to bid The wildflowers wake; Unclose each dewy lid, And starrily shake Sleep from their airy eyes Beneath the loam, And, robed in dædal dyes, Frail as the fluttering foam, In countless myriads rise. And in my city home I, too, who heard Their reedy word, Awoke, and, with my soul, went forth to roam.