Till the sun begins the lighting
Of his western fires, that smiting
Through the orchard boughs are splintered into spears of ruddy flame;
An irradiating splendor
That transfigures all the slender
Little leafless twigs and branches with a glory without name!
O, I know the year is going!
Neither reaping-time nor sowing
Will restore the tender beauty of its blossoms that are dead:
Yet I cherish all their sweetness