WHEN first the crocus thrusts its point of gold Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould, And folded green things in dim woods unclose Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes Into my veins and makes me kith and kin To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire, Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din, Far from the brambly paths I used to know, Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine Where the Neponset alders take their glow, I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar And inarticulate ardors of the vine. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...VIGNETTES OVERSEAS: 2. OFF ALGIERS by SARA TEASDALE TOM BOWLING ['S EPITAPH] by CHARLES DIBDIN TO JOHN DONNE (2) by BEN JONSON THE FAMINE YEAR by JANE FRANCESCA WILDE THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN by AESOP HASSAN'S MUSIC by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH |