I
The year's processionals mocked her as they streamed
Across the earth with proud, unsullied grace;
Each flower in its appointed time and place,
And the unfolding of each leaf had seemed
To brand the hope on which her heart had dreamed--
That spring should drive the winter from her face,
And summer with a broken covenant trace
How spring's indentured pledges were redeemed.
Slowly they came, those blown maturities,
In chaste, irenic order, leaf and bud
And blossom, and red fruit upon the trees,
Pale blue and yellow in spring flowers, blood
Of peony and rose--she knew them all--
From the crocus to the aster in the fall.