RINGBARKED TIMBER
In sunny days how fully they confess With pale arms, lifted to skies desolate,The abject penance of their nakedness, That shows the world the sorrow of their state.
On moonlit nights they rise, bone-stark and white, Beneath that cold and starry diadem;But in the kindness of the moonless night Forgotten leaves come rustling back to them.
If you should stand beside the paddock gate, Still as a post yourself, nor move, nor speak:A touch that is no more than feather-weight Will lightly brush, in passing, on your cheek.
Maybe you name it as a twilight moth, Losing direction where the cloud-world heaves;But out of summer's folded cerecloth Back to the ringbarked trees have come the leaves!
Could you not smell the gum-tang drifting past? Could you not feel the warmth of blossoming?Did you not sense how gallantly was cast About that bitter need, the cloak of spring?
