Spring by Laura Munteanu
Down grass green ways, into the wood
Over a racing brook, I strode in haste
Lest the light should fail, as I knew it would
And this fresh progress gained, be lost and wasted.
So up and down these trilling green dells,
Where streams shot and splashed o’er the stone,
And sprayed the watching flowers, the bluest bells,
On to where dim evening has grown.
And on I rushed in the growing gloom blind
To the shadows that in dark menace grew,
Till last my path to the valley did wind
On to the tripping tree roots that I knew.
And thus I have trod my forefather’s way.
I live yet to journey another day.