I cannot reach a hand to touch your sorrow.
I sit alone this fading afternoon,
Wishing I could tell you that tomorrow
Spring would come. Instead the winter moon
May slowly mist with ice the grief you are bearing,
And Autumn will have gone her way too soon.
If I could take the fire she is wearing,
If I could take the splendor of her gold,
Or know the quiet courage of her daring
To flaunt her leaves, so soon to turn to mould,
How clearly you would see her allegory!
My heart so longs to say to you, “Behold,
The valiant trees flash through the hills their story.
Beloved, they go out aflame with glory!”