In Print 04

The bare-headed mountain is weeping at the grave
For the dead skies of summer.
Dark, mourning and brave
For the snows have not yet aged his barren head.

Summer's knell is rung by the clear ground
Which trembles as the last leaf falls into the tomb.
Crossing the sorrowing gloom
There on the earth a dead butterfly is found.

The church tower stifles its grief
And twists its weather-cock in vain,
To hide the pounding bell within its brain.

The gesturing trees have put off their clothing in turn;
And we remember at their roots
Wild strawberries that will not return.

After the storm the Oak in all its splendour,
Stands in the open, a sure reminder,
That however strong the wind may be,
'Tis ne'er so strong as the old Oak Tree.

In summer its boughs are covered with leaves,
Which rustle and wave as the warm breeze breathes,
With its gentle touch as soft and caressing
As the hand of its Maker bestowing a blessing.

But in winter it usually looks dark and bare,
And people don't wish to stand there and stare,
Unless thickly covered in snow it should be,
When white-crowned it stands in its full majesty.