Light at each point was beating then to flight, The sapling bark flushed upward, and the welling Tips of the wood touched, touched at the bound, And boughs were slight and burdened beyond telling Toward that caress of the boughs a summerβs night, Illimitable in fragrance and in sound.
Here were the blue buds, earlier than hope, Unnumbered, beneath the leaves, a breath apart, Wakening in root-dusk. When the air went north, Lifting the oakleaves from the northern *****, Their infinite young tender eyes looked forth. Here all that was, was frail to bear a heart.