Nights, that the large stars strew, Heaven on heaven rolled; Nights, pearled with stars and dew, Whose heavens hold Aromas, and the new Moon's curve of gold. So mad, so wild is March!-- I long, oh, long To see the redbud's torch Flame far and strong; Hear, on my vine-climbed porch, The bluebird's song. How slow the Hours creep, Each with a crutch!-- Ah, could my spirit leap Its bounds and touch That day, no thing would keep-- Or matter much! But now, with you away, Time halts and crawls, Feet clogged with winter clay, That never falls, While, distant still, that day Of meeting calls. LONGINGS Now when the first wild violets peer All rain-filled at blue April skies, As on one smiles one's sweetheart dear With the big teardrops in her eyes: Now when the May-apples, I wis, Bloom white along lone, greenwood creeks, As bashful as the cheeks you kiss, As waxen as your sweetheart's cheeks: Within the soul what longings rise To stamp the town-dust from the feet! Fare forth to gaze in Spring's clean eyes, And kiss her cheeks so cool and sweet! THE SWEET O' THE YEAR I How can I help from laughing, while The daffodillies at me smile? The dancing dew winks tipsily In clusters of the lilac-tree, And crocus' mouths and hyacinths' Storm through the grassy labyrinths A mirth of pearl and violet; While roses, bud by bud, Laugh from each dainty-lacing net Red lips of maidenhood. II How can I help from singing when The swallow and the hawk again Are noisy in the hyaline Of happy heavens, clear as wine? The robin, lustily and shrill, Pipes on the timber-belted hill; And o'er the fallow skim the bold, Mad orioles that glow Like shining shafts of ingot gold Shot from the morning's bow. III How can I help from loving, dear, Since love is of the sweetened year?-- The very insects feel his power, And chirr and chirrup hour on hour; The bee and beetle in the noon, The cricket underneath the moon:-- What else to do but follow too, Since youth is on the wing, Lord Life who follows through the dew Lord Love a-carolling. IN MIDDLE SPRING Now the fields are rolled into turbulent gold, And a ripple of fire and pearl is blent With the emerald surges of wood and of wold, A flower-foam bursting redolent: Now the dingles and deeps of the woodland old Are glad with a sibilant life new sent, Too rare to be told are the manifold, Sweet fancies that quicken, eloquent, In the heart that no longer is cold.