I think the day less sweet than yesterday
When august shook the hazy blue of morn
The crimson-breasted birds that lit in May
Betrothed the ripened sky and left, forlorn.
Where sprawled the tender crib of April’s fawns
Where damp the morning sip of leafy green
The frost of winter bares its teeth to dawn
Sweet death of day, and longer night between.
Here snared by dahlias, slowed by violet seeds
The warbler steps across His garden throne
The land lay still, and lo! upon His arches
The bluebells weep and leave rich voice to stone.
How drained this red of spring, from sun to sleep,
Light breath of ice, dream on, sweet Season’s leap.