Clark Ashton Smith

On boughs a-tremble with the rain,
The blown white flowers of the plum
Their fragile hold awhile retain.

And though tempestuous tears have come
Between us, and a startled moan
From mouths that kisses have made dumb —

Still, still, the gentler tears atone,
And still we keep our April love,
Like poising petals all unflown.

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