Apple blossoms look like snow,
They're different, though.
Snow falls softly, but it brings
Noisy things:
Sleighs and bells, forts and fights,
Cosy nights.
But apple blossoms when they go,
White and slow,
Quiet all the orchard space,
Till the place
Hushed with falling sweetness seems
Filled with dreams.
Speculation
I wonder if God sits alone
Upon the highest mountain stone
To stir the clouds and drop the rain,
And then to pick it up again.
I wonder if he sends the brooks
Foaming from their distant nooks,
And, sitting there in robes of gray,
Turns rivers on at break of day.
Parade
The scarlet trumpet flowers are gay
And yet they never seem to play,
They never trumpet up the dawn
Nor blow retreat across the lawn.
But oh, to-day I heard a strain,
A happy, martial, quick refrain,
As down across the garden grass
I saw the marching flowers pass:
Gaudy phlox and flaunting rose,
Stiff and straight and on their toes,
And, blaring from the garden wall,
The trumpet flower led them all.
Flower Preferences
If I were a tiny fairy
With nothing else to do
But to wriggle into flowers
All the long day through,
I'd dance among the roses,
I'd take a stately walk,
Balancing precisely
On an Easter-lily stalk.
For play I'd choose the jonquils,
For swimming, poppy cups,
For jokes and tricks and tiny naps,
The Johnny-jump-ups!
But on some quiet evening,
I'd leave my fairy band,
And on a star-flower through the sky
I'd sail to fairyland.