The specters sport beneath the stars
as sighing winds make trees to sway;
the rustle of dark leaves to far
and distant dryads softly prays;
and you and I with shadows play
where echoes of those dryads are.
As April opens, primula glances
at warm winds passing in happenstances,
the gardens make ready for summer dances.
Through arbor lattice and out away
a river wanders, warm from day,
amid the grasses in curves that sway.
Leafless poplars enwreathed in gauze
on violet evenings drift and pause.
The cattle munch with grassy jaws
as bell from an exalted station
sounds Angelus adoration
in unceasing lamentation.