Slow Smoke/When the Round Buds Brim
WHEN THE ROUND BUDS BRIM
When April showers stain
The hills with mellow rain,
The quaking aspen tree,
So delicate, so slim,
In glittering wet festoons,
Is a lovely thing to see—
When the round buds brim
And burst their fat cocoons,
Like caterpillars, clean,
And cool, and silver-green,
Uncurling on the limb.
The hills with mellow rain,
The quaking aspen tree,
So delicate, so slim,
In glittering wet festoons,
Is a lovely thing to see—
When the round buds brim
And burst their fat cocoons,
Like caterpillars, clean,
And cool, and silver-green,
Uncurling on the limb.
And lovely when September,
With magic pigment dyes
The aspen stems with wings
Of flimsy butterflies—
When the frosted leaf swings
Its gold against the sun
And dances on the bough.
With magic pigment dyes
The aspen stems with wings
Of flimsy butterflies—
When the frosted leaf swings
Its gold against the sun
And dances on the bough.
But when in bleak November
The latest web is spun,
And the gold has turned to dun,—
When winds of winter call
And the bare tree answers
As the last leaves fall
Like crumpled moths,—oh, now
How sad it is to look
Upon the leaves in the brook—
So many tattered hosts,
So many haggard ghosts,
So many broken dancers.
The latest web is spun,
And the gold has turned to dun,—
When winds of winter call
And the bare tree answers
As the last leaves fall
Like crumpled moths,—oh, now
How sad it is to look
Upon the leaves in the brook—
So many tattered hosts,
So many haggard ghosts,
So many broken dancers.