Each year I mark one lone outstanding tree, Clad in its robings of the summer past, Dry, wan, and shivering in the wintry blast. It will not pay the season’s rightful fee,— It will not set its frost-burnt leafage free; But like some palsied miser all aghast, Who hoards his sordid treasure to the last, It sighs, it moans, it sings in eldritch glee. A foolish tree, to dote on summers gone; A faithless tree, that never feels how spring Creeps up the world to make a leafy dawn, And recompense for all despoilment bring! Oh, let me not, heyday and youth withdrawn, With failing hands to their vain semblance cling!
This poem is appropriate to the time of year - and also because I will be having another (!) birthday this month. The days, weeks, months and years continue to add up until I am an age now that I feel, not quite comfortable with, and one that is coming very close to a milestone year that may mean I've passed my sell-by date!