How can this birch tree profit by the spring?
No green or lustrous garment it can wear,
Will recompense the loss of silver boughs
That are so lovely bare.
Clean as the moon without a wisp of cloud;
White as a goddess carved upon a frieze;
Its pale distinction, shining and aloof
Beside more somber trees.
Oh,April sunlight, do not hector it;
And, warm winds, let it be; insistent spring,
Stand by abashed; how can you dare to touch,
So beautiful a thing?