Can there be buds upon the hedge—
Wee, starry pointlets half unrolled?
And were we blind to read the pledge
Written in the willow’s pencilled gold?
And is it fancy that there breathes
A vagrant perfume in the air,
A scent of freshly opened leaves?
There are no leaves yet anywhere.
Ah, dear Spring, stay thy flying feet;
Try all thy chords; play leisurely;