Cherry Trees

I do not know what grieves me more, the slant Of light that veils the face of April snow As Cherry trees begin to shed and know Their time has passed them by, or the slow chant Among the boughs, a keening of despair For what was beautiful, so short a stay Of fragile company that shift and sway, Wait on the wind to float them to the air. How many times the staggering stem divines Its future memories in retrospect And props the treasure that will be stole, Know only that the cost is great yet finds Some comfort in its mind to recollect It's labours in the making of a soul.