Outside, the trees are naked now,
Blanketed only by the blowing snow,
No leaves to shelter glance
From voyeurs who glimpse below,
Who trample down the native roots,
Who think that beauty comes in June,
The winter’s bleaker face forlorn
Without a bird or song.
The glaze of ice upon the bark
Still speaks of age and idle talk,
Reminds years after we are gone,
Resplendent seasons linger on.