A glowing, black-boughed cherry
In glory on the lawn,
Stands stripped of leaf or berry,
It’s wind-whipped blossom borne
As if in mute defiance
Of what I cannot know —
For neither wit nor science
Could match this matchless show —
As now the sun creeps, laden
With orange, twilight fire,
To kiss this white-lipped maiden —
And, awe-struck, I retire.