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VITA NUOVA
Hearken! what myriad little lives once more
Come knocking, knocking at the Mother's door,
Importunate for birth!
The trees, that look so bare,
Are conscious that the tender leaves are there—
Folded, yet faintly stirring in the bud;
And upward from each buried rootlet runs
The golden ichor, gift of vernal suns,
On swelling to the flood.
And, oh! thrice loved of yore—
Whence comes that note? It was not here before!
The white-throat! By what blest magician's art—
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