Not every one can know the quiet despair For some lovely thing forever lost, The sight of swaying trees in summer air, Or their gracefulness encased in frost. Not every one can know the loneliness, Save one whose daily joy it was to see The changing grandeur of a precious tree Bright in a beauty kin to holiness. Its broken beauty lies, a tangled mass Of torn quiescent limbs; I cannot pass Again to hear that almost human cry Of dying leaves -- a sound that cannot die. |