He walks the Earth in deep July,
And wanders where the South winds die.
A thrush is singing round his head
And from his path the snow has fled.
He whispers to the quickening trees
Of green and folded mysteries;
And, kneeling, calls without a sound
To blind bulbs groping underground.
He feels beneath his touch the start
Of a sparrow’s brown and careless heart:
The rabbit knows his soft caress
And trembles with strange eagerness.
And after he has passed, men find
That there is wattle in the wind.