Classic Poem

Sunshine!
Sunshine!
Smooth blue skies,
Fresh winds through early tree-tops,
Pointed shoots,
White bells,
White and purple cups.
I am a plum-tree
Checked at its flowering.
My blossoms wither,
My branches grow brittle again.
I stretch them out and up,
But the snowflakes fall—
Whirl—and fall.
April and snow,
And my heart stuffed and suffocating
Dead,
With my blossoms brown and dropping
Upon my cold roots.