BUDS

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.