WHEN the sap runs up the tree. <br /> And the vine runs o’er the wall, <br />When the blossom draws the bee, <br /> From the forest comes a call, <br />Wild, and clear, and sweet, and strange, <br /> Many-tongued and murmuring <br />Like the river in the range— <br /> ’Tis the joyous voice of Spring! <br />On the boles of grey, old trees, <br /> See the flying sunbeams play <br />Mystic, soundless melodies— <br /> A fantastic march and gay; <br />But the young leaves hear them—hark <br /> How they rustle, every one!— <br />And the sap beneath the bark <br /> Hearing, leaps to meet the sun. <br /> <br />Oh, the world is wondrous fair <br /> When the tide of life’s at flood! <br />There is magic in the air, <br /> There is music in the blood; <br />And a glamour draws us on <br /> To the distance, rainbow-spanned, <br />And the road we tread upon <br /> Is the road to Fairyland. <br /> <br />Lo! the elders hear the sweet <br /> Voice, and know the wondrous song; <br />And their ancient pulses beat <br /> To a tune forgotten long; <br />And they talk in whispers low, <br /> With a smile and with a sigh, <br />Of the years of long ago, <br /> And the roving days gone by.<br /><br />Victor James Daley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-roving/
