The Sycamores and the Beeches

The Sycamores sit high enthroned

Above a frozen stream,

Limbs bare as bone,

Like old skeletons from a dream.

But Beeches wear their leaves quite late

So that when other trees

Stand white and wait

For breath of spring to stir a breeze

The beeches bear their golden load

Of gilded paper leaves.

Cathedral eaves

Alone above a diamond snow.