Classic Poem

The trees along our city streets
—Are lovely, gallant things;
Their roots lie deep in blackened soil,
—And yet they spread their wings

Of branching green or fretted twigs
—Beneath a sullen sky,
And when the wind howls banshee-like
—They bow to passers-by.

In fall their leaves are bannerets
—Of dusty red and gold
And fires dim that warm our hearts
—Against the coming cold.

Then delicate through winter's snow
—Each silhouette still makes
Black filigree, with frostings rare
—Of silver powdered flakes.

But leafed or bare, they bravely rise
—With healing in their wings—
The trees along our city streets
—Are lovely, gallant things.

The trees along our city streets
Are lovely, gallant things;
Their roots lie deep in blackened soil,
And yet they spread their wings

Of branching green or fretted twigs
Beneath a sullen sky,
And when the wind howls banshee-like
They bow to passers-by.

In fall their leaves are bannerets
Of dusty red and gold
And fires dim that warm our hearts
Against the coming cold.

Then delicate through winter's snow
Each silhouette still makes
Black filigree, with frostings rare
Of silver powdered flakes.

But leafed or bare, they bravely rise
With healing in their wings—
The trees along our city streets
Are lovely, gallant things.