 | Forest Notes |  |
23
SUMMER SHADOWS
We spoke of winter through the summer noon;Of widowed boughs, the robin's lonely tune,
The silence of the wan December moon;
“On every tree,” I sighed, “Death brands his name.”
“True, child,” he said; “the green leaves die too soon,
We bind the faggots while the wood-doves croon,
But out of them shall rise a song of flame.”
And, wistful, in the wood with dead twigs strewn,
We spoke of winter through the summer noon.
A.
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