THIS LANE IN MAY

A fragrance lingers, though the rains be done;

And apple-trees have shaken from their hair

The thin and shining blossoms, one by one,

Starring the roadway like a silver stair.

And something softer than the rain comes by,

Older and dearer than these bright, new days:

An odour... or a trick of lights that lie

Familiar on these grass-grown, rutted ways.

This lane in May is such a haunted thing,

For all the newness of the rain-wet trees:

An old, old May, remembered of the Spring,

Returning ghostwise on such days as these,

Moves in the blowing odours where they pass,

Trailing these scattered blossoms in the grass.