The sturdy trees that yester-eve were gray
In dim and foggy veils, and half effaced
By winter rain that compassed them, to-day
Arise like knights in crystal armor laced.
The stiff, brown-fibered weeds beside the walk
Have pinned, with each dull spike, a shivered star.
An icy chime is rung from every stalk
To wandering step that clashes them ajar.
The wood is bright as when the summer lost
Her sun-gems in the deep, soft shadow-seas—