Across the half-imagined wind that stirs
A muffled organ-music from the pines!
Earth knows to-day that not one note of hers
Is minor. For, behold, the loud sun shines
Till the young maples are no longer gray,
And stronger grows their faint, uncertain lines;
Each violet takes a deeper blue to-day,
And purpler swell the cones hung overhead,
Until the sound of their far feet who stray
About the wood, fades from me; and, instead,