Your oaken branches cage My argent eye,
That sees only night,
And deny Its sight of snowshine bright
‘Neath the winter sky.
Soon, clouds will blush at the sleepy sun,
Waking from dark mum,
And reddens the leafless oaks of dun,
Nighttide ebbing, dumb.
For now I stare and silver your boughs
Praying and devout,
Returning my gaze with gaze of doubt,
Heeding not my vow.