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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-toned and murmuring
Like the river in the range
'Tis the joyous voice of Spring!
On the boles of gray 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.
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