The cottonwood, own child of radiant spring,
Stands all aflutter in its shimmering green, 
As not of Earth but of some realm serene 
Where Winter never comes, and Light is king, 
Whither its leafy pinions quivering, 
Its upflung boughs in their soft silver sheen, 
Seem ready to transport it when the keen 
Arctural blasts stop its brief bourgeoning. 
Behind it rise the pines in dull array, 
Dark wintry aliens in a sunbright land; 
Yet winter's strength their level boughs display, 
Strength fitted winter's tempests to withstand; 
And on them rests a glory past compare^__
The failed hope of those who set them there. 

^__Rose Morgan.