Caroling Dusk/Blight
For works with similar titles, see Blight.
BLIGHT
I have seen a lovely thingStark before a whip of weather:The tree that was so wistful after springBeating barren twigs together.
The birds that came there one by one,The sensuous leaves that used to swayAnd whisper there at night, all are gone,Each has vanished in its way.
And this whip is on my heart;There is no sound that it allows,No little song that I may startBut I hear the beating of dead boughs.