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