"To Rosy Buds ..."

By Nora May French

To rosy buds in orchards of the spring,
            To melting clouds in endless deeps of air,
My love shall lift a swelling throat and sing,
  Akin to all things fugitive and fair.
They shut love from his heaven and he sings?
  But, captive eyes are pitiful to see!
Oh, flashing sun on upward-beating wings—
  Oh, tumbling notes of joy—my bird is free!

Dear love, forever strange, beloved most!
  Dear fleeting buds, bear not your fruit and die!
Be this a path forever found and lost,
  A drift of bloom upon an April sky.