The branches interlacing down the street
Are glistening like the tips of angels’ wings
In long array. The subtle silver clings
Upon them all. Not even the vibrant beat
At noonday of the great sun’s golden feet,
Has racked apart this airy ice that rings
The outswept boughs with these enamellings,
That gleam like drawn wires spinning through white heat.
A vortex filled with whirling stars might fling
Upon its margins some such dazzling spray,
As fell upon these trees and twigs today;
Enough to turn a man from wandering
And burden him with beauty that will weigh
Heavily as the heaviest gold of spring.
(Kenneth Slade Alling)
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