When first the crocus thrusts its point of gold <br />Up through the still snow-drifted garden mould, <br />And folded green things in dim woods unclose <br />Their crinkled spears, a sudden tremor goes <br />Into my veins and makes me kith and kin <br />To every wild-born thing that thrills and blows. <br />Sitting beside this crumbling sea-coal fire, <br />Here in the city's ceaseless roar and din, <br />Far from the brambly paths I used to know, <br />Far from the rustling brooks that slip and shine <br />Where the Neponset alders take their glow, <br />I share the tremulous sense of bud and briar <br />And inarticulate ardors of the vine.<br /><br />Thomas Bailey Aldrich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-touch-of-nature/
