  A tall slim poplar That dances in A hidden corner Of the old garden, What is it in you Makes communion With this wind of Autumn, The clouds, the sun? You must be lonely Amidst round trees With their matron-figures And stubborn knees, Casting hard glances Of keen despite On the lone girl that dances Silvery white. But you are dearer To sky and earth Than lime-trees, plane-trees Of meaner birth. Your sweet shy beauty Dearer to us Than tree-folk, worthy, Censorious. |
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