In leafless woods, when the first sap of Spring
Tingles within the branches, bare and drear,
The Beech still holds its foliage, pale and sere,—
The myriad leaves that all-defiant cling;
Days warmer grow; arrive the song and wing;
Then on the Beech th' exultant buds appear,
Forcing the old leaves off,—their fate is clear;
And life-scarred hearts shrink from this hinted thing.

The fierce impulsion of the bud, insooth,
Dashes our dream of perpetuity;
We dreamt we were immutable, but now
We feel the new leaves push us from the bough:
Proud in defeat, we flash these words at Youth:
“Lo! we salute you, we, about to die!”