I wish the poplar tree would shed

The leafage it has borne so long,

That the last word was done and said

With the last blackbird's summer song. If once the boughs were bare and stark

Who knows what hopes might stir in the dark? The yellow trees the South wind blows,

I wish they would shed their last gold rain.

If they were stripped at last who knows

What heavy heart might lift again?

One must be stripped quite bare before

Comes the new birth long waited for.

Better sweet things when done and over

Were out of sight beneath a stone.

If one were stripped beyond recover

Who knows what stir of buds unblown,

What sap, might warm the chill veins

After the Winter and the rains?

Some day the purple buds might come,

Thickening the branch against the sky,

What time the blackbird sings in the gloom

And a wet wind goes wandering by,

With violets in its breath. Who knows

What joy might be with lily and rose?

The ghost of Summer troubles me.

If skies were grey and winds were chill,

Who knows what sudden hope might be

Of wonderful new beginnings still?

When one might find at last—one might!— Again, the long–perished dear delight.