A-Roving

WHEN the sap runs up the tree.
   And the vine runs o’er the wall,
When the blossom draws the bee,
   From the forest comes a call,
Wild, and clear, and sweet, and strange,
   Many-tongued and murmuring
Like the river in the range—
   ’Tis the joyous voice of Spring!
On the boles of grey, old trees,
   See the flying sunbeams play
Mystic, soundless melodies—
   A fantastic march and gay;
But the young leaves hear them—hark
   How they rustle, every one!—
And the sap beneath the bark
   Hearing, leaps to meet the sun.

Oh, the world is wondrous fair
   When the tide of life’s at flood!
There is magic in the air,
   There is music in the blood;
And a glamour draws us on
   To the distance, rainbow-spanned,
And the road we tread upon
   Is the road to Fairyland.

Lo! the elders hear the sweet
   Voice, and know the wondrous song;
And their ancient pulses beat
   To a tune forgotten long;
And they talk in whispers low,
   With a smile and with a sigh,
Of the years of long ago,
   And the roving days gone by.