Forecast

Yet once again, my apple-trees are drest Resplendently with blossoms silver-white: How suddenly they burgeoned overnight With beauty, when I thought they were at rest. One day ago, their naked fingers prest Against a hostile sky of winter light, As if to touch the waning sun in flight, Or gather a few embers from the West.

But this new Spring that now enchants each tree Is strangely cold and gleaming; for these flowers Were sculped by wind from fallen snow and frost. And each one holds a coming prophecy Of brighter suns and laughing April showers, And the remembered glory of Springs lost.