The sky is heavy with a molten feast —
The flaming streams have come to distant deeps.
The branches laze in veils of haze — so soon!
The days of cracking ice seem barely gone.
The willows deep in sweet-breathed flower-drifts
(For winter burst the clasps of holy writ).
The golden bells of daisies sway at last
In place of leaden grief and wintry blast.
My buttercups are here — but butterless!
Globeflowers and cymbals, how you knell!
I drink the raptures of the gentle moment.
Before the feast — a solemn stillness.
A bluer blue. From clouds grown stout,
The Flame, on gnarled vines, roars its blossoms out.
(Konstantin Dmitrievich Balmont)
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Based on Topics: Place PoemsBased on Keywords: laze, sweet-breathed, butterless