I question with the amber daffodils,
Sheeting the floors of April, how she fares;
Where king-cup buds gleam out between the rills,
And celandine in wide gold beadlets glares.
By pastured brows and swelling hedge-row bowers,
From crumpled leaves the primrose bunches slip,
My hot face rolled in their faint-scented flowers,
I dream her rich cheek rests against my lip.
All weird sensations of the fervent prime
Are like great harmonies, whose touch can move
The glow of gracious impulse; thought and time
Renew my love with life, my life with love.
When this old world new-born puts glories on,
I cannot think she never will be won.