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[In the forest by the rain-wild creeks]

In the forest by the rain-wild creeks,
Where the wet wind fumbles in the boughs,
Rake the leaves away and, lo! the beaks
Of a myriad germs, beneath, that house:
Fingertips of gold and green and gray,
Tongues and fingertips of countless flowers,
Pointing us and telling us the way,
Path up which the Springtime leads her Hours:
At whose step awake the thousand pipes
Of the hylas, ere our eye perceives
In her cheeks the rose that morning stripes,
In her hair the gold of all the eves.