The almond tree by the crossroads wide,
Where the early blackbirds sing,
Shakes out her delicate clustered pride
At the first surge of spring.
White, white is the almond branch,
As white clouds after rain,
But dark the wound I cannot staunch
That wells unseen again.
For I care not at, all for the roses wrought
Of the season's mounting prime,
Nor the colourful spoil of blossoms caught
In the meshes of summer-time.
Only the almond where we two kissed
Lang syne, in the better years,
I see again through a sudden mist
Of tears, of futile tears.
First published in The Australasian, 24 August 1929
