New Spring, 43

Late autumnal mists all-dripping
Spread o’er hill and valley fair;
Storms the trees of leaves are stripping,
And they ghostly look, and bare.

But one single sad tree only
Silent and unstripp’d is seen;
Moist with tears of woe, and lonely,
Shaketh he his head still green.

Ah! this waste my heart displayeth,
And the tree, still full of life,
Summer-green, thy form portrayeth,
Much beloved and beauteous wife!