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.