North wind came whistling through the wood,
Where the tender, sweet things grew.
The tall fair ferns and the maiden's hair,
And the gentle gentians blue,
"It is very cold; are we growing old?"
They sighed, "What shall we do?"
The sigh went up to the loving leaves,—
"We must help," they whispered low.
"They are frightened and weak, O brave old trees!
But we love you well, you know."
And the trees said, "We are strong—make haste!
Down to the darlings go."
So the leaves went floating, floating down,
All yellow and brown and red,
And the frail little trembling, thankful things
Lay still and were comforted.
And the blue sky smiled through the bare old trees
Down on their safe warm bed.