April In September

WHAT song is in the sap of this brave oak-tree

That to the north-star faces,

Ravened each June by caterpillar masses

Till all its leaves are laces,

Poor shreds whose very shadow grieves the grasses?

I leave it then, but roses and the smoke-tree

Look from the lawn below it

And watch for that gold witch, Midsummer Weather,

With magic breath to blow it

Free of its foes, whose wings make mirth together.

Vital as Igdrasil, immortal folk-tree,

When I return, its losses

Are all restored, its fresh, soft foliage gleaming

With peach and citron glosses,

A Druid that is never done with dreaming.