Buds

Sway in the night gale,

New-broken maple buds,

Little yellow moths;

Strain toward the street lamps,

Break them and crush them with your millions of wings,

Consume yourselves in a lovely destruction.

For so soon you will grow,

And, placid with dust,

Flabby with size,

F. R. McCreary

You will live all the nights content with the fat breath of

summer;

Eager for nothing,

Easy for the quick snatch of October.