A Metamorphosis

A ROARING, blustering beast of March,
Set free from out a cloud-hung arch
In pallid skies, as dim of dye
And cold as frosted violet’s eye.

A lion March that shakes his mane
To fright, those steeds of golden rein,
Whose charioteer drives on apace
With steady splendor, godlike grace.

For sand by sand, and hour by hour,
And day by day, Apollo’s power
Repels the dark, encroaching night
With long and longer shafts of light.

The lion halts. His rolling eyes
Are fixed as with a spell’s surprise ;
For emerald grasses rock and rise
Beneath his feet like lullabies ;
The soothing zephyrs charm his ear;
The Psyche butterflies appear
On restless wings aflame, and fain
To search for missing Love again ; The blossom-bells are swaying fine
To rhythms of some thought divine.

The lion in the path of Spring
Has couched, and low is listening
To melodies, like waterfalls,
Of choiring birds, whose crystal calls
Make herald’s way before her feet
Who comes like Una, pure and sweet,
In bluish haze,— her lucent veil
And trailing garments virginal
Of green and white all blossom-wreathed,—
The fairest fancy heaven has breathed
Or earth has crowned. The lion dumb,
With desert vision, sees her come.

Beside him sweeps her fragrant gown ;
Her hand is laid like thistle-down
Upon his head. Oh, wondrous sight!
His sulphurous mane to fleeces white
As those imparked in yonder blue,
New dipt in Flora’s mountain dew,
Has changed; his eyes are mild and calm;
The lion stands confessed — a lamb.