Until the Suns of Spring have smiled
And kissed it, blushing, to a rose.”
How doth the tree, fair youth, the tree?
“Year by year it adds a round
And reaches up by slow degree,
Keeping firm foot on the ground.”
The vine, sweet maid, how doth the vine?
“By the tree’s support it lifts its head
And round the tree its arms doth twine;