Cones / F.S. Flint

Cones
The blue mist of after-rain Fills all the trees; The sunlight gilds the tops Of the poplar spires, far off. Here a branch sways And there a sparrow twitters. The curtain’s hem, rose-embroidered, Flutters, and half reveals A burnt-red chimney-pot. The quiet in the room Bears patiently A footfall on the street.