The mid-March that she describes is that of the East Coast, mid-Atlantic area. Here in the subtropical South it is certainly not too early for white boughs. In fact, many of our white boughs have already come and gone.
Our trees are leafing out even as I type this and many of my roses have been blooming all winter. Only the moon is the same as the one she describes: "a sword of keen, barbaric gold; Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud." It is a scimitar tonight or, if you prefer, a moon with a Cheshire Cat's smile.
It is too early for white boughs, too late
For snows. From out the hedge the wind lets fall
A few last flakes, ragged and delicate.
Down the stripped roads the maples start their small,
Soft, ’wildering fires. Stained are the meadow stalks
A rich and deepening red. The willow tree
Is woolly. In deserted garden-walks
The lean bush crouching hints old royalty,
Feels some June stir in the sharp air and knows
Soon ’twill leap up and show the world a rose.
The days go out with shouting; nights are loud;
Wild, warring shapes the wood lifts in the cold;
The moon’s a sword of keen, barbaric gold,
Plunged to the hilt into a pitch black cloud.