Classic Poem

Choked with rank grass and bracken,
The ruined orchard lay
Dead—in the riot of spring.
Dry lichen gripped the branches grey,
And scarlet fungus sucked its way,
Where once had been
A glory of pink and white, and silvery sheen
Of budding green:
A wandering breeze
Faltered, and fled away,
Finding no play,
In the gaunt rows of rotting trees.

But—suddenly—there flashed into my sight
From out that melancholy decay,
The dear perfection of a single spray
Of delicate peach blossom:
Quickly beside the dying tree,
I tenderly
Drew down the flowers to my face,
And bathed my spirit in their grace,
And heard them sing,
Child-like, the eternal song of spring.
With catching breath,
I whispered praise to the mother-tree,
And her passionate love throbbed back to me,
As together we laughed at decay
And triumphed over death,
She, with her blossoming spray,
I, with my children three.