In Green Ways

Among the leaves I make a rhyme,
To the winter in its pall,
For the poor, forgotten time
Has not had a song at all.

Winter ! winter ! do not fear,
You shall have an icy crown
At the falling of the year,
When the leaves have tumbled down.

I am singing to you here,
Though the bud is on the tree,
At the falling of the year
You will sing a song to me.

Songs From The Clay [1915]