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.