Gardener Janus catches a naiad

Baskets of ripe fruit in air

The bird-songs seem, suspended where

Between the hairy leaves trills dew,

All tasting of fresh green anew.

Ma'am, I've heard your laughter flare

Through your waspish-gilded hair:

Feathered masks

Pots of peas,

Janus asks

Naught of these

Creaking water

Brightly stripèd,

No, I've caught her -

Shrieking biped.

Flute sounds jump

And turn together

Changing clumps

Of glassy feather.

In among the

Pots of peas

Naiad changes -

Quick as these.