THE roof-tree that shows in the attic 

Its arms bare and leafless and brown, 

To the eyes of the dear little children 

Is reaching all wistfully down 

With fruitage; they troop there and always 

Bring treasure. To night in the dusk 

They come and bring corn silver-kerneled, 

Each ear tied by silver-white husks. 

The tiny ears shelled, now the children 

Are gathered around in the glow 

To see how the small kernels blossom 

To leaves that are white as the snow. 

The eyes that are watching are eager; 

The myst'ry to them as new 

As if never before in the fire-heat 

Leaf on leaf frail white blossoms grew.