The voice of spring

When she speaks, I smell rain In a Japanese Garden; I stand By the boughs Of magnolia trees, And, brushing Their limp, heavy buds, Feel them swell Into blossom. What was it that she said, When her lips parted softly, And her breath, Like the ghost of a butterfly, Trembled from her mouth On a thin band of mist? Will she whisper To the plump, new-born rabbits As they gather together Towards the dark roots Of yew trees, Where they listen To the twilight? When she speaks, I will stoop In a bower of white petals; I will browse Through the grasses, Choosing leaves Of wild lecture and garlic. She will call. She will speak