The plume upon the larch.
There is a music fills
The oaks of Belmont and the Wayland hills
Southward to Dewing’s little bubbly stream,
The heavenly weather’s call! Oh, who alive
Hastes not to start, delays not to arrive,
Having free feet that never felt a gyve
Weigh, even in a dream?
But thou, instead, hast found
The sunless April uplands underground,