The Maple in Winter

a Poem

Black Spruce and Maple, Tom Thomson. 1915.

A Maple stands at the edge of the wood,
In Winter seeming dead,
For her heart was struck once where she stood
And she wears no crown on her head.

In Winter some for pity sigh
That her grave should upright be.
“What a fate! To sicken and die
Where all the world might see!”

But in Spring with buds her branches stir,
She wears a living blush—
Her roots with depths unknown confer,
And make a monstrous hush.

In Spring she sews herself a dress
With tassels pale as jade—
In Summer she clothes her nakedness
With emerald brocade.

Oh human soul! Stripped of your crown,
In Winter seeming dead:
Spring is weaving the cloth for a gown,
And Summer is spinning her thread.