Drawing of tree with poem:
'What shall I call thee - Song bird? Sweetheart mine?
How shall I woo thee?... If, in truth I dare
To cast my shadow on that path of thine;
To braid my silver with thy golden hair.

How shall I woo thee? - Stretching out my hands
As elms in spring stretch forth their boughs to greet
Wing'd wanderers from sunny far-off lands?
Ah, seek some younger, fresher shade, my sweet!

Thy nest should be a bow'r of blossoms rare;
Thy shade should be all perfumed, + thy lay
Poured forth upon the summer-spicèd air
Of some soft chime, when it is always May!

Alas! my boughs are tempest-toss'd + shorn;
My roots have struck the rock - my leaves are shed;
Shall winter mate with spring, or eve with morn?
Despair with hope? The living with the dead?

Yet come, if thou wilt! For well-nigh due
In God's great miracle, when earth + sky,
Mountain, + moon, + copse their youth renew -
And if the daisies, dearest, why not I?

I wak'd last night from dreams of spring, + lo!
The first dear crocus shows its head today;
And yonder limes are crimsoned with the glow
Of the imprison'd summer! Come away!

Away, dear lover, to meet + greet the spring!
Unfold, ye buds! Laugh out in lead, ye trees!
Come, perfum'd winds, your summer sweetness bring,
From tropic isles beyond the Western seas!

Sing, sing, ye thrushes! To our Northern Shore
Dear swallows, from the purple East fly fast!
Darkness, + doubt, + winter are no more -
The eternal youth of Hope is mine at last!
A.B.E.
Oct. 1887 - Jany. 1888 (underlined)' (ink note)