The Pond

Bright clouds of May

Shade half the pond.

Beyond,

All but one bay

Of emerald

Tall reeds

Like crisscross bayonets

Where a bird once called,

Lies bright as the sun.

No one heeds.

The light wind frets

And drifts the scum

Of may-blossom.

Till the moorhen calls

Again.

Naught's to be done

By birds or men.

Still the may falls.