Winter Boughs

HOW tender and how slow, in sunset’s cheer,

Far on the hill, our quiet treetops fade!

A broidery of northern seaweed, laid

Long in a book, were scarce more fine and clear.

Frost, and sad light, and windless atmosphere

Have breathed on them, and of their frailties made

Beauty more sweet than summer’s builded shade,

Whose green domes fall, to bring this wonder here.

O ye forgetting and outliving boughs,