Classic Poem

The year's our season. We are what green means!
You think you know it, fields of Winter wheat,
Barley before the sun has turned it gold,
And apple trees before their fruit is sweet—
But we're the real green. All the others show
Only some shade of what we are and know.

Green's a good color and so we don't change.
The others play with green. They put it on
And off as folks do garments. Willows now—
They're yellow half the year, and elms upon
A windy hilltop are gray as the sky
All Winter long as the gray clouds come by.

Think about green! Even the grass turns brown,
And maple trees get drunk with gold and red,
Poplars drop leaves like minted coins between
The fingers of a miser. When all's said
Just shut your eyes, think green, and you will see
Spreading its boughs on a hill a green pine tree!