AFTER THE WINTER
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ome day, when trees have shed their leavesAnd against the morning’s whiteThe shivering birds beneath the eavesHave sheltered for the night,We’ll turn our faces southward, love,Toward the summer isleWhere bamboos spire to shafted groveAnd wide-mouthed orchids smile. And we will seek the quiet hillWhere towers the cotton tree,And leaps the laughing crystal rill,And works the droning bee.And we will build a cottage thereBeside an open glade,With black-ribbed blue-bells blowing near,And ferns that never fade.
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