"Young loves to sell!" a voice calls out
Beneath the trees, "young loves to sell!"
From porch and garden round about,
Child, maid, and matron hasten out —
The voice was like a silver bell,
⁠⁠Young loves to sell!"

She took the basket from her head,
This cunning nymph of Arcadie, —
"Just see the soft wings, grey and red,
Fluttering in their pleachen bed,
Who'll buy? I will not wait, you see,
⁠⁠Who'll come to me?

"Young loves to sell!" the children run
About her, "O take all our toys,
Take all we have and give us one!"
Old Laia spinning in the sun
Cries, "Long since lost I all my joys,
⁠⁠Give me but one!"

"Young loves to sell! I will not stay,
So maidens, maidens, come and buy,
I cannot give them without pay,
Nor let them fly, I'll go away,
If no one quickly comes to try
⁠⁠If she can buy.

"See how each little rosy dear
Smiles through the wicker bars at you.
Do not let your faint hearts fear,
My darling loves! They smile and peer,
And this one with wings azure blue,
⁠⁠He beckons you.

"The dainty curls on that one’s brow
Like Cupid’s own are, come and see,
His downy cheeks are all aglow,
Like yours, why should you hide them so?
Let us barter and agree,
⁠⁠Make haste to me."

Silvia, where is Silvia hid? —
She loosed the pearling from her hair,
Her golden necklace she undid,
Her bracelet from her wrist she slid,
And ran and caught the prize so rare,
⁠⁠Silvia the fair.

Then every one and all at once
Struggling round the wise nymph flew,
None would rest without a chance,
Such shining eyes and such a dance!
But Silvia's was the best I knew,
⁠⁠Wings azure blue!

Oh sadness of decay!
The autumn fields are grey,
⁠And long-forgotten is the hedge-row tune;
How sick the shattered fern,
How harsh the woods and stern,
⁠How pale and palsied is the afternoon

Oh gladness of decay!
The wild buds store the May,
⁠The hushed lanes listen for the blackbird’s song;
The dumb trees hoard their strength,
The shy fern peeps, at length
⁠Old Death is quickened, and the days are long.

To-day what is there in the air
That makes December seem sweet May?
There are no swallows anywhere,
Nor crocuses to crown your hair
And hail you down my garden way.

Last night the full moon’s frozen stare
Struck me, perhaps; or did you say
Really, you’d come, sweet friend and fair,
⁠⁠⁠⁠To-day?

To-day is here, — come, crown to-day
With spring’s delight or spring’s despair!
Love cannot bide old Time’s delay; —
Down my glad gardens light winds play,
And my whole soul shall bloom and bear
⁠⁠⁠⁠To-day.

Poor, troubled heart, if thou would'st find relief,
And think’st thy woe were eas’d if it were heard,
⁠Go, 'prentice thee to that sad-colour'd bird,
And learn to make the world in love with grief.
Sing as he sings, and tender eyes will weep,
⁠Sing to the night, as after summer's drouth
⁠The dew unseals the rose’s silent mouth,
And all but love and sorrow are asleep.
Drug day with work, for day is loud and bold,
⁠Sing to the night, let sorrow make no sign
Till it can flutter in the sunset gold,
⁠Or in the silver moonlight softly shine;
Then let it forth, wild fire, or saving stream,
To take its way unchalleng'd, — as a dream!