Beneath the frost-stripped forest boughs, the drifted leaves are spread,
Vanished all summer’s green delight, all autumn’s glory fled.
Yet, gathering strength from that dead host, the tree in some far spring
Shall toward the skies a denser growth, a darker foliage fling.
Ah, if some power from us, long dead, should strengthen life to be,— Effie Smith
We need not grieve to lie forgot, like sere leaves ’neath the tree!