FROM A MOTOR IN MAY

The leaves of Autumn and the buds of Spring Meet and commingle on our winding way— And we, who glide into the heart of May, Sense in our souls a sudden quivering. What though the flesh of blue or scarlet wing Bid us forget the night in dawning day, Skies of November, sullen, sad, and gray, Once hung above this withered covering. There is no Spring that Autumn has not known, Nor any Autumn Spring has not divined,— The odor of dead flowers on the wind Shall but enrich a fairer blossoming, And though they shiver from a breeze outblown, The leaves of Autumn guard the buds of Spring.