The House of the Trees
& Other Poems

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



WHEN the sun is growing weaker,
And his look is meek and meeker,
Comes the frost—the pale betrayer—
Light of foot, a stealthy slayer.

In the night abroad he stealeth,


For each trembling leaf he feeleth;
Something softened by its pleading,
Kills it not but leaves it bleeding. [Page 62]