Classic Poem

Elspeth, I can but guess the vague shape of the sky;
It is all greyness and moving flecks on a glare.
God must be young, Elspeth, young and less wise than I
To shred his sky so and scatter it on the air.

White buds are puffing into white bloom on the trees;
The dark pines are petalled with a soft burst of snow;
The dark pines are dense with numberless white bees,
Which swarm at the scentless bloom, hover, whirl and blow

Soon we shall be as a light drift of snow — poor ghosts
Threading some labyrinth of air. Then — ah! but now
My heart is the heart of a child, a child that boasts
No then, but stops and laughs at the white-pelted bough.