Page:Poems of Emma Lazarus vol 2.djvu/250

 me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre ; The buds are bursting on the wild sweet-briar. To-night the Spring is born — the breeze takes fire. Expectant of the dawn behold the thrash, Perched on the fresh branch of the first green bush ; Give me a kiss, my poet, take thy lyre. How black it looks within the Tale ! I thought a muffled form did sail Above the tree-tops, through the air. It seemed from yonder field to pass. Its foot just grazed the tender grass ; A vision strange and fair it was. It melts and is no longer there. My poet, take thy lyre ; upon the lawn Night rocks the zephyr on her veiled, soft breast.