Slow Smoke/When the Round Buds Brim
WHEN THE ROUND BUDS BRIM
When April showers stainThe hills with mellow rain,The quaking aspen tree,So delicate, so slim,In glittering wet festoons,Is a lovely thing to see—When the round buds brimAnd burst their fat cocoons,Like caterpillars, clean,And cool, and silver-green,Uncurling on the limb.
And lovely when September,With magic pigment dyesThe aspen stems with wingsOf flimsy butterflies—When the frosted leaf swingsIts gold against the sunAnd dances on the bough.
But when in bleak NovemberThe latest web is spun,And the gold has turned to dun,—When winds of winter callAnd the bare tree answersAs the last leaves fallLike crumpled moths,—oh, nowHow sad it is to lookUpon the leaves in the brook—So many tattered hosts,So many haggard ghosts,So many broken dancers.