The little aspen tree stands high
Upon the hill that guards the lane;
Her leaves are green as emeralds,
Her prattle is like dancing rain.
She gossips to the wind, the sky,
And we are comrades, she and I.

I climb the hill at evenfall;
She stands so high she may look down
And whisper me if you have turned
The winding highway from the town,
And in the wind's arm bend to see
And murmur that you haste to me;

And with her hundred voices tell
Each step you take to reach my side,
And laugh in merry mockery,
Pretend to scold and weep and chide,
And stand a moment mute in grief,
Then laugh with every rustling leaf.

And when at last you take my hands
And call my name, in mimicry
She chatters it a dozen times;
And then in gay and elfish glee
Attunes her happy leaves to this —
The lisping cadence of a kiss.