The wind howling in the willows
The shrill laughter and glee;
It had heard it all,
Before the final hour of its fall.

So gently the northerly would it blow
But cease! Alas, unexpectedly;
Yet, the boiling rage had it braved
And shrewd minds and a towering blaze.

When the earth had cracked
And skulked had too the wintry warriors
It had stood its ground
Despite the coldness circling it round and round.

Nothing had been so precarious,
As to steal it of its rightful throne;
Yet now however, the tempest brewed,
And risked it being crushed and slewed.

No survivor from the battlefield,
No patron with a gilded chariot;
None could hold the reigns of apalling gale
And all that was left to do was plead and wail.

How easily had the raging furore
Proven its superiority over the majestic wisdom
For, when the heavens, after the storm, uncoiled,
The battered leaf had submitted to the tender soil.