BETWEEN SEASONS

The cherry trees are haunted

By hordes of robber jays,

And warmer winds are fanning

The poppies to a blaze.

And loosed in fitful flurries,

The sweet syringas fall,

To lie like little snow-drifts

Against the garden wall.

Upon the laden lattice,

In softly rounding shapes,

A wealth of tiny clusters

Are growing into grapes.

Heigho! a drowsy shimmer

Enfolds the sunny hours;

And humming-birds are hidden

In scarlet trumpet-flowers.

The tenderness of springtime

Is almost overpast;

But O, the gracious summer,

It comes, it comes at last!