The trees are breathing quietly to-day
Of coming Autumn and the Summer over;
Pause of high Summer when the year's at stay
And the wind's sick, that moves now like a lover.

On valley ridges where the beeches cluster,
Or changing ashes set by slopes of plough,
He goes; now sure of heart now in a fluster
Of teasing purpose. Night shall find him grow

To dark strength and relentless-spoiling will.
First he loves baffle streams and dull the bright;
Cower and threaten both about the hill --
Before their death trees blast in full delight.