After the winter

Someday, when trees have shed their leaves,

And against the morning’s white

The shivering birds beneath the eaves

I have sheltered for the night.

We’ll turn our faces southward, love.

Toward the summer island

Where bamboos spire in the shafted grove

And wide-mouthed orchids smile.

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And we will seek the quiet hill.

Where is the cotton tree?

And leaps the laughing crystal rill,

And works the droning bee.

And we will build a cottage there.

Beside an open glade,

With black-ribbed bluebells blowing near,

And ferns that never fade.