Classic Poem

The poplar folds her arms and binds her hair;
The elm tree waves her hands with cries and prayer,
The old oak holds his leaves fast, miserwise,
While the cold wind assaults and twists and tries
To wrest them from him; willows stand
Drooping and yellow like faint whispers in the land.
It is their lenten season, and laid by
Is all their fluttering green and panoply
Of orange-brown and scarlet. The bowed earth
In penitential robes awaits the birth
Of Spring the glorious, absolution's sign
Of sins washed out in floods of perfumed wine.

Late the hills glowed like painter's pallet laid
With color touching color, shade on shade.
The happy hills whose tops were lifted high
Into a pleasant blue and smiling sky.
Then nuns turned dancers, clad in gaudy skirts,
And modest shrubs changed into laughing flirts,
And a whole world of trees played carnival
Standing aghast when leaves began to fall.
A shudder passed over the listening hill,
And dried things moaned and little birds were still.
The high priest Winter came with liturgies
And the wind played a funeral march for trees.

See how they stand like monks at evensong,
Remembering sins, repentant, praying long.
How still the woods are when the birds have flown
And leaves are dead and the trees stand alone.
And little feet are resting and the stream
Lies in her ivory dream!
O white bound earth, where shall I lay my hand
To feel your pulse throb in this winter land?
O slender poplar, when your prayers are said
Are you forgiven? Are you comforted?
Where do you wait, O Spring? For cold and still
Rises the brown crest of my winter hill!