Pear Orchard in Spring

Too still, too strange, aware of unreturning

Moments of bloom, at noon these tranced bright trees

Lift so austere a flame, there is no burning

Of gold on petals where the sunlight is.

This pale carved instant is the lovely tragic

Pause of a splendor winged, alert for flight-

(There is a tale, an orchard holds wild magic

The haunted moment when each bloom is white)-

Too proud, too still. Before the spell is broken,

Before a petal falls, before the doom

Of certain change, oh, let no word be spoken

To shatter this white climax of hushed bloom!

Let quiet creep through each dark sense (O brightness

Of full fair flower, too still, too strange for peace!)

Let the loud pulse and breath, lost in this lightness,

Like wind give over, or like singing cease.