Spring seized me in the wood,
Made of me a satyr
Feet hoofed with hardihood,
Heart a passion-crater.
Spring seized me in the wood—
Oh, how I hate her!
For the nymph I love came by,
With a green wreath at her thigh.
‘Were she Diana's self,’ said I,
‘Now would I mate her!’

So, lustily, I sprang
Through the leaves and took her;
Swept her with kisses, sang,
No least word would brook her.
And, when, within the shade,
All but bliss forsook her,
Up with a remorseful cry,
Up she rose, with wreathen thigh,
Anger-pale, and fled! then I
Knew I had mistook her.

Now, loveless, do I go,
Loveless—and unmated.
Shamed by all nymphs I know,
By her shunned and hated.
Dance they amid the brake?
My arms go unsated!
Never sylvan-girded thigh
Swift against me glimmers by,
Evoë! how sad am I,
So befooled and fated!

Spring, Spring it was did this,
Spring the mad exalter!
Spring, with her wanton kiss,
Fire on the heart's altar.
Had I my nymph again
I would never palter
With such passion: no, not I,
Though with wanting I should die!
But, sufficed, would let no sigh
For her from me falter.