Spring Longing.

What art thou doing here, O Imagination?    Go away I entreat thee by the gods, as thou didst come, for I want thee not.    But thou art come according to thy old fashion.    I am not angry with thee - only go away.          - Marcus Antoninus     Lilac hazes veil the skies.         Languid sighs     Breathes the mild, caressing air.     Pink as coral's branching sprays,         Orchard ways     With the blossomed peach are fair.     Sunshine, cordial as a kiss,         Poureth bliss     In this craving soul of mine,     And my heart her flower-cup         Lifteth up,     Thirsting for the draught divine.     Swift the liquid golden flame         Through my frame     Sets my throbbing veins afire.     Bright, alluring dreams arise,         Brim mine eyes     With the tears of strong desire.     All familiar scenes anear         Disappear -     Homestead, orchard, field, and wold.     Moorish spires and turrets fair         Cleave the air,     Arabesqued on skies of gold.     Low, my spirit, this May morn,         Outward borne,     Over seas hath taken wing:     Where the mediaeval town,         Like a crown,     Wears the garland of the Spring.     Light and sound and odors sweet         Fill the street;     Gypsy girls are selling flowers.     Lean hidalgos turn aside,         Amorous-eyed,     'Neath the grim cathedral towers.     Oh, to be in Spain to-day,         Where the May     Recks no whit of good or evil,     Love and only love breathes she!         Oh, to be     'Midst the olive-rows of Seville!     Or on such a day to glide         With the tide     Of the berylline lagoon,     Through the streets that mirror heaven,         Crystal paven,     In the warm Venetian noon.     At the prow the gondolier          May not hear,     May not see our furtive kiss;     But he lends with cadenced strain         The refrain     To our ripe and silent bliss.     Golden shadows, silver light,         Burnish bright     Air and water, domes and skies;     As in some ambrosial dream,         On the stream     Floats our bark in magic wise.     Oh, to float day long just so!         Naught to know     Of the trouble, toil, and fret!     This is love, and this is May:         Yesterday     And to-morrow to forget!     Whither hast thou, Fancy free,         Guided me,     Wild Bohemian sister dear?     All thy gypsy soul is stirred         Since yon bird     Warbled that the Spring was here.     Tempt no more!    I may not follow,         Like the swallow,     Gayly on the track of Spring.     Bounden by an iron fate,         I must wait,     Dream and wonder, yearn and sing.