It is burning the winter away.
The smoke is coming like clouds over sea,
It has its own tides.
Its own laws.
There are only small flames to see:
Nothing like fireworks or stars.

But it is a herald.
An augury.
These tight buds of flame
Will burst later on borders and flower-beds 
Most decorously.

All passion is like this – 
Like the spent rose
Veering and turning in a bevy of winds 
Till the seed overflows.