Good many a day has gone,
I could not have touch of you,
Nor of your garden’s fragrance,
The flash of your dumb eloquence.
The first –eyed standstill,
The arrest of skied –landscape,
The hanging soul on lingered bridge,
Now are my reverie’s glimmering glee.
With spring paralyzed reasoning,
The language of unknown tender,
The opening of artesian effusions,
In present ebb, seem nearest tide.