An April Morning

By George Sterling

Slow to the wanton sun's desire
    The vestal-bosomed buds unfold,
Till poppies flaunt a silken fire,
    And buttercups a glassy gold.

How gently fare the cloudy flocks
    To pastures girdled by the sea!
The lizards twitch along the rocks,
    And subtle odors lure the bee.

There broods a peace upon the hills,
    Too vast for morning winds to break,
Tho' murmurs throng the broken rills,
    And voices of the woodland wake,

Till half I turn to hear again
    The flutes of Arcady at dawn,
And rout of hurrying nymphs that feign
    To dread the kisses of the faun.

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