Sweet sights and sounds throng manifold.
Only one little sight, one plant
Woods have in May, that starts up green
Save a sole streak which, so to speak,
Is Spring’s blood, spilt its leaves between—
That, they might spare; a certain wood
Might miss the plant; their loss were small;
But I—whene’er the leaf grows there—
It’s drop comes from my heart, that’s all.”