The trees along our city streets Are lovely, gallant things; Their roots lie deep in blackened soil, And yet they spread their wings Of branching green or fretted twigs Beneath a sullen sky, And when the wind howls banshee-like They bow to passers-by. In Fall their leaves are bannerets Of dusty red and gold And fires dim that warm our hearts Against the coming cold. Then delicate through Winter's snow Each silhouette still makes Black filigree, with frostings rare Of silver powdered flakes. But leafed or bare, they bravely rise With healing in their wings— The trees along our city streets Are lovely, gallant things. |