The Tree’s early leaf buds were bursting their brown;
“Shall I take them away?” said the Frost, sweeping down.
“No, leave them alone
Till the blossoms have grown,”
Prayed the Tree, while he trembled from rootlet to crown.
The Tree bore his blossoms, and all the birds sung:
“Shall I take them away?” said the Wind, as he swung.
“No, leave them alone
Till the berries have grown,”
Said the Tree, while his leaflets quivering hung.
The Tree bore his fruit in the mid-summer glow:
Said the girl, “May I gather thy berries now?”
“Yes, all thou canst see:
Take them; all are for thee,”
Said the Tree, while he bent down his laden boughs low.
Bjornstjerne Bjornson.
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