Beech, Pine, and Sunlight

The sudden April heat Stretches itself Under the smooth, leafless branches Of the beech-tree. And lies lightly Upon the great patches Of purple and white crocus With their panting, wide-open cups.

A clear wind Slips through the naked beech boughs. And their shadows scarcely stir. But the pine-trees beyond sigh When it passes over them And presses back their needles, And slides gently down their stems.

It is a languor of pale, south-starting sunlight Come upon a morning unawaked. And holding her drowsing.