Sweet fancies that quicken, eloquent,

In the heart that no longer is cold.

How it knows of the wings of the hawk ere it swings

From the drippled dew scintillant seen!

Where the redbird hides, ere it flies or sings,

In melodious quiverings of green!

How the sun to the dogwood such kisses brings

That it laughs into blossoms of wonderful sheen;

While the wind, to the strings of his lute that rings,

Makes love to apple and nectarine,