The
apple-trees are in flower.
Their blushed tips part and widen
into brightness by the hour,
whose fall is near as sudden.
A white-pink, a
red that’s white
that tumble into daylight,
opals out of deeping mines,
become one
more of your signs;
you who now are the
pattern
of all such things as are right,
and came so soon by this power
to be known by earth’s designs
that from May’s
hail I took fright
lest you were torn by the stones.
John Gibbens
