SPRING
... S P E I N G. Ireye, where the tall plantation firs Slope to the river down the hill, Strange impulses-like vernal stirs- Rave made me wander at their will. I see, with half-attentive eyes, The buds and flowers that mark the Spring, And Nature's myriad prophecies Of what the Summer suns will bring. For every sense I find delight- The new-wed cushat's murmurous tones, Young blossoms bursting ...