On Reading the Poems of Edith Thomas
Then will I, tasting, say—
This is arbutus’ gift,
Reached from the leafy drift
On a glistening April day.
Wild Honey.
Arbutus’ gift, in very truth, I deem
These gathered, golden songs that keep the gleam
Of early sunlight through the awakened wood;
The vernal spirits of the sisterhood
There cloistered, rosy-cool and vestal-shy,
Are in these lucent cells enforced to lie;
Here bides the baffling fragrance, here the charm.
Henceforth I fear not frosty Hiems’ harm,
Though all his bluff besiegers he should bring;
Behold, my bookshelf lodges Ver, the Spring!