THE SOUND OF THE SAP

When the ice was thick on the flower-beds, And the sleet was caked on the briar; When the frost was down in the brown bulb's heads, And the ways were clogged with mire: When the snow on syringa and spiræa-tree Seemed the ghosts of perished flowers; And the days were sorry as sorry could be, And Time limped, cursing his fardel of hours: Heigh-ho! had I not a book and the logs, That chirped with the sap in the burning?— Or was it the frogs in the far-off bogs? Or the bush-sparrow's song at the turning? And I strolled by ways that the Springtime knows, In her mossy dells, and her ferny passes; Where the earth was holy with lily and rose, And the myriad life of the grasses. And I spoke with the Spring as a lover, who speaks To his sweetheart; to whom he has given A kiss that has kindled the rose of her cheeks, And her eyes with the laughter of heaven. The sound of the sap!—What a simple thing!— But the sound of the sap had the power To make the song-sparrow come and sing, And the winter woodlands flower!