Silver Poplar.

See her standing in the rain
At the corner of the lane;
See her waiting dreamily,
Lonely, lovely poplar tree.
As her dripping branches stir
All the shining leaves of her
Move with tender flutterings,
Like the beat of prisoned wings.
Upraised arms gleam white and fair
Through her cloudy silver hair,
Winds whose songs are hushed and sweet
Kneel to kiss her little feet,
And with wistful, seeking lips
Stand tip-toes to reach the tips
Of her drenched cold fingers. She
Does not heed them, does not see;
Dreaming in the quiet rain,
At the corner of the lane.

—Katherine O'Brien.