Showed how the warm sap heaves.
I marvel how the streamer hangs so low
About my door, that with the fading year
Was out of reach—or did I dream it so?
No. Since I slept, the boughs have pressed so near
The narrow path is lost. But I must run
And chase my fellows out into the sun.
“O playmates, playmates, hear!”
So went I calling, listening, singling out