One morning when the violets bloomed

One morning when the violets bloomed,
I circled the mountain 'round
and met a lady in the forest, running with her hounds.

One was black, the other red,
the third as pale as silver,
and each clear eye as they held me there was bright and gold as the other.

She laughed with a note like a blackbird's call
and moved like air on water;
My heart leaped up like a wounded bird with fear and joy to hear her.

The hounds' teeth flashed like sickle moons
as they cavorted faster:
A question hesitates on your breath, for your own heart speaks its answer.

You have no words, but columbines
and patterns of stone in a river
the secret orchid that blooms in shade and a tender one's love for her hunter.

Should dawn or moonrise sing her call
by storm or shining weather,
I stroke the necks of my three good hounds and we run all out together.