White Trees

White trees, white trees, on a green hill
Bow to the wind, then all stand still
Pale trunks glisten in the cold moonlight
Gleaming with silver, close pressed and tight
A silent standing forest of spear-straight trees
Leaves that a-rustle with each slight breeze
Slender shadows cast oe’r the sleeping ground
Set like a palisade with cat’s ears crowned
White trees, white trees, shining and bright,
What makes you such a magical sight?

E.M. Swift-Hook