The Trees

When the moonlight strikes the tree-tops, The trees are not the same.

I know they are not the same, Because there is one tree that is missing, And it stood so long by another, That the other, feeling lonely, Now is slowly dying too.

When the moonlight strikes the tree-tops That dead tree comes back; Like a great blue sphere of smoke Half buoyed, half ravelling on the grass, Rustling through frayed branches, Something eerily cheeping through it, Something creeping through its shade.