The Feast Poem by Konstantin Dmitrievich Balmont

The sky is heavy with a molten feast --
The flaming streams have come to distant deeps.
The branches laze in veils of haze -- so soon!
The days of cracking ice seem barely gone.

The willows deep in sweet-breathed flower-drifts
(For winter burst the clasps of holy writ).
The golden bells of daisies sway at last
In place of leaden grief and wintry blast.

My buttercups are here -- but butterless!
Globeflowers and cymbals, how you knell!
I drink the raptures of the gentle moment.

Before the feast -- a solemn stillness.
A bluer blue. From clouds grown stout,
The Flame, on gnarled vines, roars its blossoms out.