Poem by Amy Lowell

The Tree of Scarlet Berries

The rain gullies the garden paths
And tinkles on the broad sides of grass blades.
A tree, at the end of my arm, is hazy with mist.
Even so, I can see that it has red berries,
A scarlet fruit,
Filmed over with moisture.
It seems as though the rain,
Dripping from it,
Should be tinged with colour.
I desire the berries,
But, in the mist, I only scratch my hand on the thorns.
Probably, too, they are bitter.

1. To-morrow to Fresh Woods and Pastures New
2. Epitaph of a Young Poet Who Died Before Having Achieved Success
3. The Green Bowl
4. The Pike
5. Vintage

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