And looking up at night it seemed the trees
Held in profusion shimmering silver fruit
Which, climbing up, some child could pluck with ease
And by handfuls twinkling on the black ground strew it.
Cold flaming silver birches then might grow,
And glow like candles lit by tenebrous monks,
And light the lost who stumble as they go
All lantern-less among dark leaves and trunks.