The Trees.

When on the spring's enchanting blue You trace your slender leaves and few, Then do I wish myself re-born To lands of hope, to lands of morn. And when you wear your rich attire, Your autumn garments, touched with fire, I want again that ardent soul That dared the race and dreamed the goal. But, oh, when leafless, dark and high, You rise against this winter sky, I hear God's word: "Stand still and see How fair is mine austerity!"