Bright clouds of May
Shade half the pond.
Beyond,
All but one bay
Of emerald
Tall reeds
Like crisscross bayonets
Where a bird once called,
Lies bright as the sun.
No one heeds.
The light wind frets
And drifts the scum
Of may-blossom.
Till the moorhen calls
Again.
Naught's to be done
By birds or men.
Still the may falls.