A tree is more than a shadow
Blurred against the sky,
More than ink spilled on the fringe
Of white clouds floating by.
A tree is more than an April design
Or a blighted winter bough
Where love and music used to be.
A tree is something in me,
Very still and lonely now.

THERE’S a place I know where the birds swing low,
       And wayward vines go roaming,
Where the lilacs nod, and a marble god
    Is pale, in scented gloaming.
And at sunset there comes a lady fair
    Whose eyes are deep with yearning.
By an old, old gate does the lady wait
    Her own true love’s returning.

But the days go by, and the lilacs die,
    And trembling birds seek cover;
Yet the lady stands, with her long white hands
    Held out to greet her lover.
And it’s there she’ll stay till the shadowy day
    A monument they grave her.
She will always wait by the same old gate,––
    The gate her true love gave her.