Classic Poem

Strength leaves the hand I lay on this beech bole
——So great-girthed, old and high;
Its sprawling arms like iron serpents roll
——Between me and the sky.

One elbow on the sloping earth it leans,
——That steeply falls beneath,
As though resting a century it means
——To take a moment's breath.

Its long thin buds in glistering varnish dipt
——Are swinging up and down
While one young beech that winter left unstript
——Still wears its withered crown.

At least gust of the wind the great tree heaves
——From heavy twigs to groin;
The wind sighs as it rakes among dead leaves
——For some lost key or coin.

And my blood shivers as away it sweeps
——Rustling the leaves that cling
Too late to that young withered beech that keeps
——Its autumn in the spring.