NOT much longer now
Will the eye see
Bonework of bole and bough,
The beautiful, austere
Essentials of the tree.
Intricate tracery
Upward and outward growing
From strength to filigree;
Inverted river, flowing
Backward from sea to hills,
Back through a hundred streams, a thousand rills.

Already now the year
Has chimed a quarter;
Nights than days are shorter;
Leaf-time is almost here.
Soon an irrelevant folly,
Impetuous, unruly,
Will mask this fine
Sureness and grace of line;
Soon a green fever
Will rage unchecked, and cover
With quick confusion clarity,
With sweet lies, verity.

Nothing to do but wait,
Endure this wild invasion,
This blurring of the vision,
This tumult of the heart:
Knowing that, soon or late,
Autumn with pain, weeping and stormy splendour
Will bring once more
Mind's sanity,
Heart's candour;
And tree stand brave and bare,
Stripped of green vanity.