Plum Tree

You come white slow this chill raw spring.
The gardener mutters "weather!" I
Know better. Years have dawdled by
Since days I saw your petals fly.

(That June long since when she was wed
They fell upon a bride's bright head.
That head now wears a little gray
That's come by life's sharp bitter way.
Dismay has pricked her with its sting
And grief has been her wedding-ring.)

I've had such grief as knows no cure^___
As scarlet through gray texture runs.
But one thing I could not endure^___
To see your beauty all at once
Or smell your fragrance suddenly.

^__Margaret E. Haughawout.

Sheep's Clothing
Margaret E. Haughawout
Page 43
(Pittsburg, Kansas: __. 1929)