They are unholy who are born
To love wild plum at night,
Who once have passed it on a road
Glimmering and white.
It is as though the darkness had
Speech of silver words,
Or as though a cloud of stars
Perched like ghostly birds.
They are unpitied from their birth
And homeless in men's sight,
Who love, better than the earth,
Wild plum at night.
Orrick Johns, in The New Poetry: An Anthology of Twentieth Century Verse in English. New York: The Macmillan Company, 1923
(OK, truthful admission here, the photo was taken last Saturday in the daytime; the night-time effect is compliments of Adobe. But my admiration for the poem, and for the effect of wild plum in the moonlight, is unchanged. And the scent! the poet didn't mention the scent!
If any flowers remain tomorrow after the winds of tonight's cold front blow through, and if it isn't cloudy and rainy, I may try for a night-time photograph. Too bad I didn't think of it sooner, during the last few balmy clear full-moon nights.)