by D.H. Lawrence
Ah in the thunder air
how still the trees are！
And the lime-tree， lovely and tall，
every leaf silent hardly looses even a last breath of perfume.
And the ghostly， creamy coloured little tree of leaves white，
ivory white among the rambling greens how evanescent，
variegated elder， she hesitates on the green grass as if，
in another moment， she would disappear with all her grace of foam！
And the larch that is only a column， it goes up too tall to see：
and the balsam-pines that are blue with the grey-blue blueness of things from the sea，
and the young copper beech， its leaves red-rosy at the ends
how still they are together， they stand so still in the thunder air，
all strangers to one another as the green grass glows upwards，
strangers in the silent garden.