Needle, you make me remember things . . . A path through a wood that ran like wine, A turn, and the bubbling smell that clings Close as breath to the lips of springs Where the sun is sprinkled fine. Needle, you have a path to run Where never the boughs of trees have met And never has seeped the rain of the sun: But long is the way you have just begun . . . Needle, you make me forget.