WHEN first the crocus thrusts its point of gold Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould, And folded green things in dim woods unclose Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes Into my veins and makes me kith and kin To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire, Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din, Far from the brambly paths I used to know, Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine Where the Neponset alders take their glow, I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar And inarticulate ardors of the vine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DEATH SONG by PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR WAITING FOR THE GRAPES by WILLIAM MAGINN THE TRANCE by LASCELLES ABERCROMBIE YOUTH'S SONGS by MAXWELL ANDERSON RESIGNATION by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER |