The leaves are gone from the tree,
We too, wind-cold, with the leaves
We that were green in the sun
Have the yellow of death in our veins.
The tree is gaunt in the star-shells,
Silver and black, grotesque.
And the voice of the wind is a myth
In the shouts of the hate.
We know of our end—
The fear is over for us.
But we think and we think–
O God! Will there be Spring again?