A Picnic Under the Cherry Trees

By John Gould Fletcher

The boat drifts to rest

Under the outward spraying branches.

There is faint sound of quavering strings,

The reedy murmurs of a flute,

The soft sigh of the wind through silken garments;

All these are mingled

With the breeze that drifts away,

Filled with thin petals of cherry blossom,

Like tinkling laughter dancing away in sunlight.