Lances of gold

The afternoon has drowsed through the sun-flood.

The green leaves have grown golden, saturated with light.

And now, at the sudden whirling of the lances of gold,

a cloud of wild-doves arises from the pines,

wheels against the sunblaze, and flashes out of sight,

flames of purple and rose, of foam-white and pink.

I know the green hidden nests of the wild-doves,

when ye come again, O whirling lances of gold!