MINSTREL WEATHER 



cool-toned and light, but the mountain ash 

 murmurs low, and low the beech. 



Watching leaves adrift on November 

 winds, there comes the memory of Steven- 

 son's song of another ended life of days 

 they "lived the better part. April came 

 to bloom and never dim December 

 breathed its killing chill." But the tree 

 that wore them, standing in stripped 

 starkness that month if stark means 

 strong shall enter dazzling splendors 

 when the days of ice storms come. That 

 miracle of lucent grayness, an elm in the 

 morning sun, when every branch and every 

 smallest twig is cased in ice outdoes its 

 green enchantments of June. It is more 

 beautiful than a tree of coral. It is the 

 color of pussy willows made to shine. It 

 is as gray as sunrise cobwebs on the grass, 

 as starlight on dew. Its branches, tossed 

 by January, clash sword on delicate sword, 

 or, left quiet, the elm stands like a pensive 

 dancer and swings against one another 

 long strands of crystal beads. And in the 

 city little ice-sheathed maples along an 

 avenue, glistening under white arc lights, 

 surpass the changing lusters of gray 

 enamel. Trees robed in ice are the very 



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