And when they led me through the wood, I knew that she was near.
I felt her breath upon my cheek, and while we walked along,
A thousand times I heard her speak the rustling leaves among,
In tones as though a harp had thrilled beneath an angel’s touch,
And all my soul with rapture filled: yet when I said as much,
The others laughed and whispered low, “Nay, nay, it is the wind!”
To them perhaps it might be so; but, ah! if folks are blind,
They learn in every sound that floats around their pathway dark—
The breeze, the brook, the glad bird-notes—some hidden voice to mark.
Therefore, when spring begins to don her garments fresh and gay,