From "Night of frost in May"

There was the lyre of earth beheld,

Then heard by me: it holds me linked;

Across the years to dead-ebb shores

I stand on, my blood thrill restores.

But would I conjure into me

Those issue notes, I must review

What serious breath the woodland drew;

The low throb of expectancy;

And how the white mother muteness

pressed on leaf and herb...