20
XCVIII
I am more tremulous than shaken reeds,
And love has made me like the river water.
Thy voice is as the hill-wind over me,
And all my changing heart gives heed, my lover.
Before thy least lost murmur I must sigh, 5
Or gladden with thee as the sun-path glitters.
XCIX
Over the wheat-field,
Over the hill-crest,
Swoops and is gone
The beat of a wild wing,
Brushing the pine-tops, 5
Bending the poppies,
Hurrying Northward
With golden summer.
What premonition,
O purple swallow, 10
Told thee the happy
Hour of migration?
Hark! On the threshold
(Hush, flurried heart in me!),
Was there a footfall? 15
Did no one enter?
Soon will a shepherd
In rugged Dacia,
Folding his gentle
Ewes in the twilight, 20
Lifting a level
Gaze from the sheepfold,
Say to his fellows,
"Lo, it is springtime."
This very hour 25
In Mitylene,
Will not a young girl
Say to her lover,
Lifting her moon-white
Arms to enlace him, 30
Ere the glad sigh comes,
"Lo, it is lovetime!"
C
Once more the rain on the mountain,
Once more the wind in the valley,
With the soft odours of springtime
And the long breath of remembrance,
O Lityerses! 5
Warm is the sun in the city.
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