The Wind and the Tree

    SANG the wind to the tree,
    O be mournful with me :
There is nothing can last or can stay ;
    And the joy of new leaves
    Turns to sorrow that grieves
    The bare bough—on a day,
On a day.

    Sang the tree to the wind,
    O be happy—I find
There is nothing time fails to restore ;
    And the fall that bereaves,
    Makes the joy of new leaves
    In the spring—evermore,
Evermore.

    The wind sighed to the tree,
    O be mournful with me :
The leaves come not again that I blow ;
    And I mourn for the lives
    No renewal revives,
    The leaves fall’n—long ago,
Long ago.