Under the long, dark boughs, like jewels red
In the hair of an Eastern
girl
Shine strings
of crimson cherries, as if had bled
Blood-drops beneath each
curl.
Under the glistening cherries, with folded
wings
Three dead
birds lie:
Pale-breasted throstles and a blackbird, robberlings
Stained with red
dye.
Under the haystack a girl stands laughing at
me,
With cherries
hung round her ears —
Offering me her scarlet fruit: I will see
If she has any
tears.