Singing Wood: Upon Hearing a Girl Play the Violin

IF with a kinsman’s finger you could fret
The vital chord in any clod or stone,
Would there not bubble to the air a tone
Of that one central music hidden yet ?
Would there not sound, in ears that still forget,
Notes of the dumb, prenatal antiphone,
Strains to unlock the sense from that long swoon
Which holds us till we pay the bounden debt?

So with this wood to-day you touched to song:
In it there slumbered all a season’s sweet,
The moonlight and the morning and the wheat
And crocuses and catbirds, — one low, long
Sweep of the bow, and there a year you drew
As lies a landscape in a drop of dew.