BLOSSOM

The vulgar fingers of the rainy wind

Play a too strident lyre,

Where apple-blossom pitifully thinned

Passes in falling fire.

The blossom did but bare a youthful breast

Slim sculptured in the sun

That, craving fruit, of life to be possessed,

Found the sweet fragrance gone.

The blossom did but sing a pretty song

Of loving, girlish tears

Too soon bewildered in the twisted wrong

Of life’s reverberate years.

The blossom all in love with the young Dawn

Like coronal did wear,

Till they, too lovely, perish and are drawn

Back into summer air.

O vulgar fingers of Time’s rainy wind

Make pause, though for a day!

Let wealth be lost; let fruitfulness be thinned

If beauty do but stay