I little know when Spring is. She goes a freer way Than draws before a narrow door That jails the restive day. I've little speech with Fall-time: Her path is swift and red. (But once I caught a bold leaf That fluttered from her head.) Too well I know the bare times Of burning walls, of cold . . . Let April wanton by the creek, October on the wold. The free-born will not tread stone To share a gloomy thrall; And evil fate will doom him Who tarries when they call. |