Between April and May
F. Hart
Between April and May
No more can pass
Than the edge of a mist
Or a sidelong ray
From the mopn or the glass
Where the little moons hide
To shew me your wrist
On whiteness and nothing beside.
The night is still,
The darkness knows
How far away
A wavering rill
Of warm air goes;
Though no bough hums,
Between April and May
A streak of plum-blossom comes.