  The raining hour is done, And, threaded on the bough, The May-buds in the sun Are shining emeralds now. As transitory these As things of April will, Yet, trembling in the trees, Is briefer beauty still. For, flowering from the sky Upon an April day, Are silver buds that lie Amid the buds of May. The April emeralds now, While thrushes fill the lane, Are linked along the bough With silver buds of rain. And, straightly though to earth The buds of silver slip, The green buds keep the mirth Of that companionship. |
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