Always, Sweetheart, Carry Into Your Room The Blossoming Boughs Of Cherry, Almond And Apple And Pear Diffuse With Light, That Very Soon Strews Itself On The Floor; And Keep The Radiance Of Spring Fresh Quivering; Keep The Sunny-Swift March-Days Waiting In A Little Throng At Your Door, And Admit The One Who Is Plaiting Her Hair For Womanhood, And Play Awhile With Her, Then Bid Her Depart. A Come And Go Of March-Day Loves Through The Flower-Vine, Trailing Screen; A Fluttering In Of Doves. Then A Launch Abroad Of Shrinking Doves Over The Waste Where No Hope Is Seen Of Open Hands: Dance In And Out Small-Bosomed Girls Of The Spring Of Love, With A Bubble Of Laughter, And Shrilly Shout Of Mirth; Then The Dripping Of Tears On Your Glove.