Wind-Lightened Bough

Spring leaving jonquil footprints called and stirred

My slumbrous will--The tree in full-blown flower

Spiralled her petals down and sang the word,

The new green word that woke the fruit-bud hour.

The golden summer danced across the field,

Crimsoned the fruit upon the laden bough;

Matured and ripened me to give my yield,

Yet hear my cry: What of the fruitage now?

Swift came the wind and shrill--Still wild it flings

Its wrath: The bough is lightened, torn and tossed,

And only one dwarfed withering apple clings--

Storm-bent and ravished, I too wait the frost.

Forlorn the tree, yet poignant-sweet my sorrow

If wind-reaped fruit will give seed for tomorrow.