November Sun

THE pale sun lit the willow tree
To sudden whiteness, and the brain
Passed winter in a stride and saw
The cherry orchards bloom again.

The willow wore her shining veil
In earnest of the spring that now
Sleeps in the tissue of the tree,
Tight curled in bud and lichened bough.

The spark that fires the orchard here
To the white flame of spring was lit
So many centuries ago
The mind grows faint at thought of it.

So many centuries ago —
And still the winter orchards keep
The secret of the flowering bough
In their bare branches held in sleep.

And in what bleak and wintry mind
May lie the spark ordained to bring
To fields of thought, fast-bound by frost,
The white apocalypse of spring!