Like trees that line a path and intertwine To form a Roman arch that shades the walk, Alongside which the buttercups recline, Engaged in multi-pedaled flower talk, So our days are linked in mirth and sorrow, Embracing one another, as they spread, Small buds assure us of a fine tomorrow By softening dark shadows overhead. But frigid winds oft come in from the east, And summer turns away her golden face. When greenery and blossoms all have ceased, Then only wintry boughs will interlace. |
