O THAT a nest, my mate! were once more ours,
Where we, by vain and barren change un-
tortured,
Could have grave friendships with wise trees
and flowers,
And live the great, green life of field and
orchard!
From the cold birthday of the daffodils,
Ev'n to that listening pause that is November,
O to confide in woods, confer with hills,
And then—then, to that palmland you
remember,
Fly swift, where seas that brook not Winter's
rule
Are one vast violet breaking into lilies
There where we spent our first strange wedded
Yule,
In the far, golden, fire-hearted Antilles.
