60
WE WAIT FOR THEE.
Our fathers tell us of their northern land,
Where mighty forests penitently stand,
And through the solemn silent wintry days
To pitying heaven their mute petitions raise.
As souls convinced of sin put far away
The gaudy things that pleased them yesterday,
So the repentant trees drop one by one
The leaves that danced and glittered in the sun.
Those autumn leaves that they had thought were gold,
As ashes now the prostrate roots enfold.
And oh! how bitterly, how sad were shed,
Like tears of blood, those last few leaves of red.
And in their shivering limbs they feel the breath
Of winter, as it were the touch of death.
To pitying heaven their naked arms they raise;
