Spring Beauty, in Beech Woods
LIFT your feet softly as a fox or deer.
Believe your eyes, but not too well.
For here
Foams the first tide of April’s doubtful flood,
Washing the beech trees’ feet.
No dye of bud
Blurs the high penciled boughs with living stain,
But deep below, where only snow has lain
So long, so long, or sad leaves bleached and drifted,
A frothy wave of pearl and rose has lifted
Its crest, and broken, pure as frost, in seas
Of petal-pink.
Like silver kelp the trees
Extend their roots, relaxed from winter’s steel.
Believe your eyes, but not too well.
For here
Foams the first tide of April’s doubtful flood,
Washing the beech trees’ feet.
No dye of bud
Blurs the high penciled boughs with living stain,
But deep below, where only snow has lain
So long, so long, or sad leaves bleached and drifted,
A frothy wave of pearl and rose has lifted
Its crest, and broken, pure as frost, in seas
Of petal-pink.
Like silver kelp the trees
Extend their roots, relaxed from winter’s steel.
Lift your feet softly, that they too may feel
This shallow roseate pool for truth, and know
The strong and delicate season’s sunward flow.
This shallow roseate pool for truth, and know
The strong and delicate season’s sunward flow.