And after many days (for I shall keep
These old things unforgotten, nevertheless!)
My lids at last, feeling thy faint caress,
Shall open, April, to the wooded sweep
Of Northern hills; and my slow blood shall leap
And surge, for joy and very wantonness—
Like Northern waters when thy feet possess
The valleys, and the green year wakes from sleep.
That morn the drowsy South, as we go forth
(Unseen thy hand in mine; I, seen of all)
Will marvel that I seek the outmost quay,—
The while, gray leagues away, a new-born North
Harkens with wonder to thy rapturous call
For some old lover down across the sea
