Classic Poem

Their branches still rent from the cold,
Cleft deep where the heavy frosts came,
Each storm-twisted tree flings its scarf to the breeze
And tosses aloft its green flame.

My heart's not so wise as the hills,
My heart's not so old as a tree,
And I cannot sing for remembering the pain
That was heavy as winter on me.

When I have known storm after storm,
When I have grown dulled, being old,
Then I may forget and be glad of the spring
Though it follows so close on the cold.