With stress and urgence bold of prisoned spring And ecstasy of burgeoning. Now, since the dew-plashed road of mom is dry, Forth venture odors of more quality And heavenlier giving. 'like Jove's locks awry, Long mu'scadines Rich-wreathe the spacious foreheads of great pines, And breathe ambrosial passion from their vines. I pray with mosses, ferns and ﬂowers shy That hide like gentle nuns from human eye To lift adoring perfumes to the sky. I hear faint bridal-sighs of brown and green Dying to silent hints of kisses keen As far lights fringe into a pleasant sheen I start at fragmentary whispers, blown From undertalks of leafy souls unknown.