My window opens out into the trees
And in that small space 
Of branches and of sky 
I see the seasons pass 
Behold the tender green 
Give way to darker heavier leaves. 
The glory of the autumn comes 
When steeped in mellow sunlight 
The fragile, golden leaves
Against a clear blue sky 
Linger in the magic of the afternoon 
And then reluctantly break off
And filter down to pave
A street with gold. 
Then bare, gray branches 
Lift themselves against the 
Cold December sky 
Sometimes weaving a web 
Across the rose and dusk of late sunset 
Sometimes against a frail new moon
And one bright star riding
A sky of that dark, living blue 
Which comes before the heaviness
Of night descends, or the stars
Have powdered the heavens. 
Winds beat against these trees; 
The cold, but gentle rain of spring 
Touches them lightly
The summer torrents strive 
To lash them into a fury 
And seek to break them—
But they stand. 
My life is fevered
And a restlessness at times
An agony—again a vague 
And baffling discontent 
Possesses me. 
I am thankful for my bit of sky
And trees, and for the shifting 
Pageant of the seasons. 
Such beauty lays upon the heart 
A quiet. 
Such eternal change and permanence
Take meaning from all turmoil
And leave serenity 
Which knows no pain. 

From Caroling Dusk (Harper & Brothers, 1927), edited by Countee Cullen. This poem is in the public domain.