Grey Lace

Under the storm-swept violet sky The old trees bend, and they swing and sigh, As the last little leaves go fluttering by.

The harlequin leaves so pied and gay, The wind is blowing them all away— They will soon be as lost as yesterday.

"Summer is over—beauty is gone— The blue days went with the last bird song," So mourn the old trees, deep-rooted and strong.

They do not dream of beauty they hold— Strange beauty of branches, warped and old, With their grey lace etched on sunsets of gold.