THE TREES

Now, in the thousandth year, When April's near, Now comes it that the great ones of the earth Take all their mirth Away with them, far off, to orchard-places,— Nor they nor Solomon arrayed like these,— To sun themselves at ease; To breathe of wind-swept spaces; To see some miracle of leafy graces;— To catch the out-flowing rapture of the trees. Considering the lilies. —Yes. And when Shall they consider Men?

(O showering May-clad tree, Bear yet awhile with me.)