Now that the sun has caressed roots of my trees
Will thy flowered palms fall upon soil unearthed?
Thy fields have withered in the fruit of spring-
The seed which spread for thee alone
Lies decaying in thine eyes of gold!
But spring does not belong in a tomb
When with fruits of her countenance the blossoms flourish,
Of the land which livens on her curling tresses
And rosebud cheeks beneath her crown of gold!
Stand in the comfort of her leafy tendrils’ shade
Lest the new borns’ cry keeps thee awake;
Though thy secrets require no cradle nor soft words of mine,
Thine infantile seeds will soon be crying
For nourishment before the season of gold!