A dancing, singing green upon my tree,
My green has passed; I have no song to sing,
What will my Autumn be ?
Must it be, though alive, as all but dead,
A heavy-footed and a silent thing ?
Effectless, sapless, tedious, limited,
A withered vanishing ?
Thus I; but He to me: Have I not shown
In Autumn woodland and on mountain fell,
The splendour of My purpose for Mine own ?
Fear not, for all is well.
And thou shalt see, My child, what I will do,
For as thy lingering Autumn days unfold,
The lovely, singing green of hitherto
Will come to thee in gold.