Sleeping in the conifers, I stumbled on a rose. Since trodden only yesterday, Now carefully she grows. Outstanding, still, the lilies in The garden she forgoes.
I offered her my hand and knelt To mend the earth and stone. But gardener she needed none. No meal. No collarbone. And so I sang a quiet song, And pat back down the loam.
O Spring when you, by skillful hand, Affirm what I opined, Awake me in the forest land, That blushing rose to find. By day I'll search the cedars and By night the yews, the pines.