Poetry Archives

How many million Aprils came
 Before I ever knew
How white a cherry bough could be,
 A bed of squills, how blue!

And many a dancing April
 When life is done with me,
Will lift the blue flame of the flower
 And the white flame of the tree.

Oh burn me with your beauty, then,
 Oh hurt me, tree and flower,
Lest in the end death try to take
 Even this glistening hour.

O shaken flowers, O shimmering trees,
 O sunlit white and blue,
Wound me, that I, through endless sleep,
 May bear the scar of you.