The Dead Blossom

by Walter M. Lindsay

The blossom died in early May,
Before I knew its sweeter prime;
No mellow fruit upon the bough
Shall hang in Autumn's harvest time.
Alone the naked tree shall stand,
Fruitless in the teeming land.

But when the Winter, chill and drear,
Whirls the leaves on every side,
All shall then as naked be
As the tree whose blossom died.
For in the Winter, none can say
Which has blossomed in the May.