isn’t there just a hint in the air

that spring’s hiding out in the garden somewhere?

remember the place where the violets grew?

let’s all go and see if they’ve been stirring too.

that sounded like wings, o! look it’s a bird.

how did he know that the mosses had stirred.

before we can really think it is spring

he’s here on his faith, and started to sing.

someone’s been here, the leaves have been tossed

as if one were looking for things that were lost.

and ruthlessly left to the late april snow

the pale slender necks of the first buds below.

let’s cover them up, it doesn’t seem fair

to leave them like this, see that birch over there?

we’ll remember the place and come back again,

when the sun is some warmer, and there’s been a rain.

let’s walk thru the wood, and come back this way

i dislike to go home, i wish it were may.{67}

here’s a place i adore, this tender dark wood.

it’s a source of delight, and if one only could

just come here and visit awhile every day,

’twould charm every heartache one has quite away.

this path has surprises at every bend.

this log has been here since i can’t tell you when.

we just walk around or climb over this way,

’twould spoil the whole scene if they took it away.

this tree has been tired standing up long ago

’twas march, the old roughneck, gave it the last blow.

it looks like a man-contrived arch o’er a drive,

the vines will cling round it and keep it alive.

i’m tired. let’s go back, we’ve come a long way

i dislike to go home, i wish it were may.