On the way to a small wooden hut
Little breeze in a grove makes a spurt,
Silver voice puts the Spring on alert.
Then she stood at the porch for awhile,
And she looked for the doorbells to chime,
Wouldn't dare to unveil pretty smile.
And she's gone to a bluish expanse,
Where the thaw-smoke arose in a dance,
Where the sadness revolved in a trance,
Where the aging and distant recluse,
Bent an arch from a birch with no use.
Then he saw her and tried to seduce.
And he cried as he jumped on a tree:
- You, the beauty, must be looking for me!
- You are longing to make yourself free!
So she took the crooked hand in her hand,
And the green beard entangled the friend,
And they flew like a fog o'er the land.
Now they pine for the same little thing,
Every evening they're both on the wing,
Now the Sorcerer married the Spring.
25 Apr. 1905
vip/2009
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