O little buds, break not so fast! The spring’s but new. The skies will yet be brighter blue, And sunny too. I would you might thus sweetly last Till this glad season’s overpast, Nor hasten through. It is so exquisite to feel The light warm sun; To merely know the winter done, And life begun; And to my heart no blooms appeal For tenderness so deep and real, As any one Of these first April buds, that hold The hint of spring’s Rare perfectness that May-time brings. So take not wings! Oh, linger, linger, nor unfold Too swiftly though the mellow mould, Sweet growing things! And errant birds, and honey-bees, Seek not to wile; And, sun, let not your warmest smile Quite yet beguile The young peach-boughs and apple-trees To trust their beauty to the breeze; Wait yet awhile!
Budding-Time Too Brief
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