Page:Poems Whitney.djvu/71

BERTHA.

The leaves have fallen from the trees,
 For under them grew the buds of May;
 And such is constant Nature's way;
  Let us accept the work of her hand:
 If the wild winds sweep bare the height,
 Still something is left for heart's delight—
  Let us but know and understand.

Bertha looked from the rocky cliff,
 Whose foot the tender foam-wreaths kissed—
 Towards the outer circle of mist
  That hedged the old and wonderful sea;