Classic Poem

The mountain laurel moves in rosy cloud-drifts
Over the wood's brown floor.
Cumulous masses,
Rounded,
Tipped with crimson,
Foam up from the dark green leaves.
More and more,
Like the sweep of bright spoil over the blue
When the storm has gone,
They move over and under
The sunshine and shadow,
Capturing the new-blown Summer
As she walks in the wood.