Acacia Tree

All the trees and bushes of the garden         Display their bright new green.         But above them all, still bare,         The great old acacia stands,         His solitary bent black branches stark         Against the garden and the sky.         It is as though those other thoughtless shrubs,         The winter over, hastened to rejoice         And clothe themselves in spring's new finery,         Heedless of all the iron time behind them.         But he, older and wiser, stronger and sadder of heart,         Remembers still the cruel winter, and knows         That in some months that death will come again;         And, for a season, lonelily meditates         Above his lighter companions' frivolity.         Till some late sunny day when, breaking thought,         He'll suddenly yield to the fickle persuasive sun,         And over all his rough and writhing boughs         And tiniest twigs         Will spread a pale green mist of feathery leaf,         More delicate, more touching than all the verdure         Of the younger, slenderer, gracefuller plants around.         And then, when the leaves have grown         Till the boughs can scarcely be seen through their crowded plumes,         There will softly glimmer, scattered upon him, blooms,         Ivory-white in the green, weightlessly hanging.