Aileen Cleveland Higgins

“ The wood-charm too—the spell of that wee gnome
Which makes birds sing.
The trees you painted with your brush
Are like the real,
But that still harking of the soft leaf-hush
[25] You could not steal.
It is the spirit of the wold—the same
That's part of me,—
The gipsy wild of me without a name,
Unhoused and free.
BUD MUSIC
I KNOW when little buds come out,
And spread their colors all about,
They make soft music—Yet it's true
Most people never hear. Do you?
There is the faintest, tinkly sound. ”