In Late Spring
Only to-day the maples start to wear
That look of inward burgeoning, and I feel
Colors I see not in the naked air,
Lance-keen, and with the little blue of steel.
No bud is forth nor green abroad and yet
Air seems to wait with raiment for earth's flowers;
Above these banks, haunt of the violet,
Hover with purple scarfs the tiring hours.
That look of inward burgeoning, and I feel
Colors I see not in the naked air,
Lance-keen, and with the little blue of steel.
No bud is forth nor green abroad and yet
Air seems to wait with raiment for earth's flowers;
Above these banks, haunt of the violet,
Hover with purple scarfs the tiring hours.
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