The night air, smelling cold with spring,
And the dark twigs of towering trees, —
When age remembers youth we bring
Aliveness back to us in these.

Leaning from windows on the gloom,
We are one with purpling woods and wet
Wild violets of our earth in whom
Aliveness wakes and wonders yet.

Inbreathed awareness, hushed and cold,
Of growth's annunciate thrust and thrill,
We lean from lifetime, growing old,
And feel your starlit magic still.