Loveliest of trees, the cherry now . . .
Now April, and the eager winds of spring Catch at the throat and pound upon the heart: The change of moods, the birds, the flowering, Each ready to repeat a gallant part. Bent to the side along the river edge Birches in green gauze tunics closely lean, Delineating the wild untidy hedge As masses of white blossom fall between. An airy scrim, agent of bright confusion, Is dropped between us and the actual trees, The invisible theatrical illusion: Old rhythms wander in, new melodies. And April love, so heady and so various, At every turn confiding and precarious.