The great bleak trees stand up against the sky
Lifting their naked arms in ceaseless prayer
To the unpitying heavens, that they might die,
Rather than drag their weary lives out there.
Thro’ starless nights the untold hours wear on,
All awful phantom shapes affright the wood —
And morning light but brings th’ unwinking sun,
To torture with its glare their solitude.
In those grim wilds no sweet-voiced bird will sing,
No flowers will bloom within those trackless lands,
Nor is there trace of any living thing,
Save those gaunt giants, holding up their hands.
And when they fall, still round the unknown spot
Howls the rough wind, till in the common ground
They end the life which is — and yet is not,—
A riddle where no meaning shall be found.