The Sleep

Autumn’s chill caressed the Wood,

And coaxed her into Sleep.

Leaves then fluttered from the Boughs

Into a towering heap.

Man admires the Wild-flower,

Gem-like on the ground;

But what of the slumbering Tree

That cannot make a sound?

Are not all things in this Wood

Reflecting how, in Life,

Living things can’t set their roots

Without enduring strife?

Can’t Life be admired

Without silken cloaks of red?

Don’t trees possess beauty

In their bones once Leaves are shed?