Jane Heap

WHEN in the spring

I go forth at morn

A-quiver with life I sing:

The world and I, new-born.

Then when I see all rampant growing

Beds of tulips o’er the plain,

Like pools and lakes of color glowing,

I would fain

Outstrip all speed, run

Naked in the sun,

Plunge, riot, be immersed,

Quench this color-thirst!

Where go the birds when the rain

Roars and sweeps and fells the grain,

When tortured trees groan with pain,

And the storm-worn night is old—

Driven forth from their slumber cold,

Where go the birds?