Between Seasons

The cherry trees are haunted
By hordes of robber jays,
And warmer winds are fanning
The poppies to a blaze

And loosed in fitful flurries,
The sweet syringes fall,
To lie like little snow-drifts
Against the garden wall.

Upon the laden lattice,
In softly rounding shapes,
A wealth of tiny clusters
Are growing into grapes

Heigho! a drowsy shimmer
Enfolds the sunny hours;
And humming-birds are hidden
In scarlet trumpet-flowers.

The tenderness of springtime
Is almost overpast;
But O, the gracious summer,
It comes, it comes at last!

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