28 OF ANNUAL MAGIC: AT TWENTY

Now I loiter, and dream to the branches’ swaying In furtive conference,—high overhead,— A-tingle with rumors that Winter is sped And over his ruins a world goes maying. Somewhere—impressively,—people are saying Intelligent things (which their grandmothers said), While I loiter, and dream to the branches’ swaying In furtive conference, high overhead. Here the hand of April, unwashed from slaying Earth’s fallen tyrant—for Winter is dead,— Uncloses anemones, staining them red; And her daffodils guard me, in squads,—displaying Intrepid lances lest wisdom tread Where I loiter and dream to the branches’ swaying.