Gods of the barren tree, the withered leaf.
The faded flower, and the ungarnered sheaf,
Gods half-forgot in the wild ages’ flow
Yours, yours am I, that all for nought have sinned.”
Spring, summer passed away, and autumn rain
Swelled the lean brooks, until the gelid year
Shot forth its icy hand, and grasped again.
Again the hanging clouds were struck and furled
By winds of winter, until skies were clear,
And there was frost o’ nights, and all the world