Bare beech trees, branches agitated, chat
And share their careless banter with the breeze,
Divulging secrets that the wind-stripped trees
Can only know in part, foreseeing that
In their long lives they've seen much, so they know
Though there may still be sun-shot, cloudless skies
That they can't trust wild weather and there lies
Behind the bright horizon, sleet or snow,
So flurries, thick and fast will glaze the ground
And soon they'll tremble, bending in the gales
That make the shivering sheep shake quaking tails
And huddle in cold folds all safe and sound
While, kept indoors, the shepherd will stay warm,
But beech trees freeze beneath the ceaseless storm.
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