In April when the first cool days
Foretell of winter’s coming frost,
And waning sun’s soft golden rays
Shine weaker now that summer’s lost.
When morning mists in veils of grey
The trees along the river cloak,
Until the breezes blow away
The clinging mist like clouds of smoke.
Then under skies of palest blue,
In these clear days before the cold,
The trees that shed their gowns bestrew
The fading green with flecks of gold.
Copyright © Dennis N. O’Brien, 2011
Image Copyright © Boyd Robertson