Quiet, at peace, in silent strength she stands,
The dull wind blowing on her rugged face,
Roughing her heavy hair; with sombre grace
Tall, leafless branches sway in her strong hands;
The rude burrs catch her dress, and thorny vines
Touched with the last deep color of the year
Cling to its hem, faded and frayed and sear,
Fringing the coarse, dusk folds with fragile spines.
A look far-seeing fills her wide, deep eyes,
And the still light of long, gray afternoon.
Bravely she waits the future, asks no boon,
Hers the year's precious past, its golden memories.