In the May-time’s golden glory
    Ere the quivering sun was high,
  I heard the Wind of Morning
    Through the laughing meadows fly;

  In his passion-song was throbbing
    All the madness of the May,
  And he whispered:  Thou hast labored;
    Thou art weary; come away!

  Thou shalt drink a fiery potion
    For thy prisoned spirit’s pain;
  Thou shalt taste the ancient rapture
    That thy soul has sought in vain.

  I will tell thee of a maiden,
    One who has thy longing fanned—­
  Spirit of the Forest Music—­
    Thou shalt take her by the hand,

  Lightly by her rosy fingers
    Trembling with her keen delight,
  And her flying steps shall lead thee
    Out upon the mountain’s height;

  To a dance undreamed of mortal
    To the Bacchanal of Spring,—­
  Where in mystic joy united
    Nature’s bright-eyed creatures sing.

  There the green things of the mountain,
    Million-voiced, newly-born,
  And the flowers of the valley
    In their beauty’s crimson morn;

  There the winged winds of morning,
    Spirits unresting, touched with fire,
  And the streamlets, silver-throated,
    They whose leaping steps ne’er tire!

  Thou shalt see them, ever circling
    Round about a rocky spring,
  While the gaunt old forest-warriors
    Madly their wide branches fling.

  Thou shalt tread the whirling measure,
    Bathe thee in its frenzied strife;
  Thou shalt have a mighty memory
    For thy spirit’s after life.

  Haste thee while thy heart is burning,
    While thine eyes have strength to see;
  Hark, behind yon blackening cloud-bank,
    To the Storm-King’s minstrelsy!

  See, he stamps upon the mountains,
    And he leaps the valleys high! 
  Now he smites his forest harp-strings,
    And he sounds his thunder-cry:—­

  Waken, lift ye up, ye creatures,
    Sing the song, each living thing! 
  Join ye in the mighty passion
    Of the Symphony of Spring!

And so the young poet finished, his cheeks fairly on fire, and, as he gazed down at Helen, his hand trembling so that he could hardly hold the paper.  One glance told him that she was pleased, for the girl’s face was flushed like his own, and her eyes were sparkling with delight.  Arthur’s heart gave a great throb within him.

“You like it!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, Arthur, I do!” she cried.  “Oh, how glorious you must have been!” And trembling with girlish delight, she took the paper from his hand and placed it in front of her on the music rack.

“Oh, I should like to write music for it!” she exclaimed; “for those lines about the Storm-King!”

And she read them aloud, clenching her hands and shaking her head, carried away by the image they brought before her eyes.  “Oh, I should like music for it!” she cried again.