I SAW the trailing branches of the trees Swaying in acquiescence to the wind; I heard the voice of winter o'er the leas, And in its breath the chill of snows defined— The snow that resting place on branches bare should find. Above me naught there was but cold, grey sky, And all about the sumachs bronzed leaves entwined; O'er the far-reaching plains there came no wood-birds' cry, Only the silent, sad solemnity of Nature met the eye.
Gone are the leaves which decked the bough, Their flaming colors scattered through the air, And only is the memory of them left there now, Only the lofty pine and hemlock lift their crests so fair, As they, the monarchs of the forest, do their royalty declare. As when hope dies in man it leaves him dumb, Until he takes heart from some promise rare; Thus willingly do the trees to sleep succumb, For so shall they sleep, to wake again, century upon century to come.
