It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
Soft, -wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks
A rich and deepening red. The willow tree
Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks
The lean bush crouching hints old royalty,
Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows
Soon -twill leap up and show the world a rose.
The days go out with shouting; nights are loud;
Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold;
The moon-s a sword of keen, barbaric gold,
Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.
Mid-march
Lizette Woodworth Reese
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Poem topics: cloud, june, moon, red, rose, tree, wind, world, wild, white, small, hedge, cold, garden, sharp, start, gold, early, black, soft, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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