The raining hour is done,
And, threaded on the bough,
The May-buds in the sun
Are shining emeralds now.
As transitory these
As things of April will,
Yet, trembling in the trees,
Is briefer beauty still.
For, flowering from the sky
Upon an April day,
Are silver buds that lie
Amid the buds of May.
The April emeralds now,
While thrushes fill the lane,
Are linked along the bough
With silver buds of rain.
And, straightly though to earth
The buds of silver slip,
The green buds keep the mirth
Of that companionship.