SONG OF THE LARCHES
Reading edition
Not foliage, but emerald fires Run through our legions in the spring, Until their myriad points and spires Are hidden past remembering. Through hanging wood, by dell and dene Again we ray ourselves in green. Not foliage, but aureate fires Leap through our legions in the fall. When autumn lights her saffron pyres And the red sun sinks to a ball, Like golden smoke across the grey We fling our worn-out robes away.