  This body, gathering slumber as it goes, Will come too full of sleep for wandering, And so lie down,—and yet it somehow knows It never could be careless of the Spring; But turning with the happy-minded earth, When straying Aprils stir the sentient mould, It still will know these festivals of mirth, These subtle sorceries of green and gold. And we may yet discover, after all, How flesh is glory whitening on the hedge, Or wine-red tulips burning at a wall;— And we may learn, by some wild-flowered ledge, How solemn dust at last turns gay again, To light the Spring for later, wandering men. |
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