Flower and Fruit

IN the spring, perverse and sour,
He cared naught for bud or flower,
Garden row or blossomed tree :
Rounded fruit he fain would see,
Vintage glow on sunburnt hills,
Bursting garners, toiling mills.
Sheer unreason!
Pity ’t were to waste the blooming season !

What ’s the matter ? Now he sits,
Deep in thought ; his brow he knits.
Here is fruit on vine and bough, —
Malcontent! what seeks he now?
Would have flowers, when flowers are none,
So in love with springtime grown !
Sheer unreason !
Pity’t were to waste the ripened season !

Edith M. Thomas.