Love and the Maidens

He seemed asleep; his wings were wet With dew; he lay among the flowers, Sweeter than Spring; his radiant curls With primrose and with violet Were crowned; and in a silent ring the girls Watched, all an April morning's misty hours....

Not one dared wake him—yet each breast Yearned to be pillow to a thing So fair. 'How will he smile?' thought they, 'In waking?...' But between them pressed One who with laughter bore the rogue away, Ere they had touched a feather of his wing.