The urge of springtime to the budding beeches.
When through the dusk the serried clouds were massing,
Where some lost lake among the hills was glassing
The stormy fire above the western spruces,
The looming moose would wonder at our passing.
Then, when the outland voices ceased to hold us,
When winds would tell no more what once they told us,
We dreamed how far away a little village
Lay waiting with its welcome to infold us.