Tripping over mountain-tops and skipping over seas, I come no one knows from where, and bring tidings of spring’s coming,

As it were, to the autumn-weary birds, lining their nests with the silver of white lilies.

I roll on the grass and frolic with the tulip-branches, coaxing smells and colours – flowers – out of them.

Gently do I stroke the petals of the tulip and the rose, lest their stems should bend under my weight.

When a poet breaks into song with the frenzy of love’s sorrow, with his breath I join my own.