Great giver of my lovely green in Spring,
A dancing, singing green upon my tree,
My green has passed;
I have no song to sing;
What will my Autumn be?
Must it be, though alive,
as all but dead,
A heavy-footed and
a silent thing?
Effectless, sapless, tedious, limited,
A withered vanishing?
Thus I; but He to me:
"Have I not shown
In Autumn woodland and on mountain fell
The splendor of My purpose for Mine own?
Fear not, for all is well.
"And thou shalt see, My child,
what I will do,
For as thy lingering Autumn days unfold,
The lovely, singing green of hitherto
Will come to thee in gold."