I WONDER if there ever was an elm
With such a shapely interplay of limbs
As this which stands down where the river flows,
And where the pool in shadowed silence brims.
You glimpse them through the little leaves of May,
Stretched upward toward the ever changing sky;
You glimpse them when the rich green leaves of June
Are shaken by the wind that rushes by.
But when those leaves are fallen to the grass
And cold November spreads its stormy cloud,
Then naked stands the elm, stripped of her wealth,
Knowing no fear, no shame, but free and proud.
Free from restraint of all their summer growth
The bare boughs toss and bend, then rise and fling
Against the mournful splendor of the sky
The bold design of yet another spring.