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.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.