Angels of the Spring

We see them not—we cannot hear The music of their wing⁠— Yet know we that they sojourn near, The angels of the spring! They glide along this lovely ground When the first violet grows; Their graceful hands have just unbound The zone of yonder rose. I gather it for thy dear breast, From stain and shadow free: That which an Angel’s love hath blest Is meet, my love, for thee!