The Spring (Leconte de Lisle)

A live spring sparkles in the bosky gloom,
    Hidden from the noonday glare;
The green reeds bend above its banks and there
    Blue-bells and violets bloom.

No kids that batten on the bitter herb,
    On slopes of the near hill,
Nor shepherd's song, nor flute-note sweet and shrill,
    Its crystal source disturb.

Hard by, the dark oaks weave a peaceful screen
    Whose shade the wild-bee loves,
And nestled in dense leaves the murmuring doves
    Their ruffled plumage preen.

The lazy stags in mossy thickets browse
    And sniff the lingering dew;
Beneath cool leaves, that let the sunlight through,
    The languorous Sylvans drowse.

White Nais, near the sacred spring that drips,
    Closing her lids awhile,
Dreams as she slumbers, and a radiant smile
    Floats on her purple lips.

No eye, kindling with love's desire, has scanned
    Beneath those lucent veils
The nymph whose snowy limbs and hair that trails
    Gleam on the silvery sand.

None gazed on the soft cheek, suffused with youth,
    The splendid bosom's swerve,
The ivory neck, the shoulder's delicate curve,
    White arms and innocent mouth.

But now the lecherous Faun, that haunts the grove,
    Spies from his leafy trench
Those supple flanks, kissed by the oozy drench
    As with a kiss of love;

Then laughs, as when the Satyr's wanton imps
    A wood-nymph's bower assail,
And, waking with the sound the virgin pale
    Flies like the lightning-glimpse.

Even as the Naiad, haunting the clear stream,
    Slumbers in woods obscure,
Fly from the impious look and laugh impure
    O Beauty, the soul's dream!