Classic Poem

The poplar shows its white teeth to the gust
Driven out the east and up the still highway;
The alders bow like reeds. A cloud of dust
Whirls by, and with it scents from hollows gray,
Scents from a hundred fields, the petals fair
Of blossoming brambles by the fence a-row.
The wind passes, and lo, each bush is bare!
There at the gate, the one rose late agrow
Lies in the path, a little quaking heap
Of crimson leaves. The lily there is now
A little snow blown through the grasses deep.
Light airs and gentle sounds haunt blade and bough;
Then, in the silence following again,
Fall sudden-sweet great drops of silver rain.