The stark, brown lines
Of oaks in winter,
Thin against the endless sky,
Humble in their decrease,
Stretch like the soul
Toward heaven,
Bare and fruitless to the eye
Yet alive down deep
Where sleeping blooms
Await reawakening.
The pale, gray mood
Of clouds in winter
Flat across the widened sky,
Ambiguous in form
And bleak of portent,
Cold in its deceit,
Creeps like the ache of age,
Apparently hopeless,
Yet the warmth of Spring
Awaits reaapearance.
