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Invisible crystals of aërial ring, Against the wind I hear the bluebird fling Its notes; and where the oak’s mauve leaves uncurl I catch the skyey glitter of its wing; Its wing that lures me, like some magic charm, Far in the woods And shadowy solitudes: And where the purple hills stretch under purple and pearl Of clouds that sweep and swirl, Its music seems to take material form; A form that beckons with cerulean arm And bids me see and follow, Where, in the violet hollow, There at the wood’s far turn, On starry moss and fern, She shimmers, glimmering like a rainbowed shower, The Spirit of Spring, Diaphanous-limbed, who stands With honeysuckle hands Sowing the earth with many a firstling flower, Footed with fragrance of their blossoming, And clad in heaven as is the bluebird’s wing.