I walked against a sudden blue of sky, Discovering the first anemones, And sharp and wild I heard your petaled cry Like golden rain among the listening trees. I climbed the valley and I found you there, As lithe and slim as any birch that stands At dawn, with luna moths upon your hair And redbud clusters trembling in your hands. O what will happen when the lunas fly And those bright blossoms wither in the sun? O surely something fair and young will die And something finish that is just begun. Your April soul and mine will weep together For something passing in the April weather. |