And flowing robes
Like astrologers
Hail their fallen brothers
The boats a-sail on the Rhine
They’ve learned the seven arts
From old fir trees their elders
Who are great poets
They know they’re fated
To outshine the planets
To shine changed gently
To stars and snow-clad
On a joyous Christmas
Feast day of dreaming firs
With long languorous boughs
The firs are fine musicians
Singing old-time carols
In autumn’s evening breeze
Or as somber magicians
Cast spells when thunder peals
Ranks of white cherubim
Replace the firs in winter
Their wings swaying
In summer they’re eminent rabbis
Or rather old maids
Fir trees vagabond doctors
Come with soothing ointments
When the mountain’s in labor
And time to time in a hurricane
An old fir moans and lies down to slumber
The Women