Hark — what a rushing torrent
Of crystal song falls sheer!
Would you not be in Tryon
Now that the spring is here?
Path Flower. [Olive Tilford Dargan]
A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
A lark o'er Golder's lane,
As I the April pathway trod
Bound west for Willesden.
At foot each tiny blade grew big
And taller stood to hear,
And every leaf on every twig
Was like a little ear.
As I too paused, and both ways tried
To catch the rippling rain, —
So still, a hare kept at my side
His tussock of disdain, —
Behind me close I heard a step,
A soft pit-pat surprise,
And looking round my eyes fell deep
Into sweet other eyes;
The eyes like wells, where sun lies too,
So clear and trustful brown,
Without a bubble warning you
That here's a place to drown.
"How many miles?" Her broken shoes
Had told of more than one.
She answered like a dreaming Muse,
"I came from Islington."
"So long a tramp?" Two gentle nods,
Then seemed to lift a wing,
And words fell soft as willow-buds,
"I came to find the Spring."
A timid voice, yet not afraid
In ways so sweet to roam,
As it with honey bees had played
And could no more go home.