I always s like the northern birches: <br />Their view, so downcast and grave, <br />The fever, which poor souls scorches, <br />Cools like the mute speech of a grave. <br /> <br />But yet, the willow, which branches, <br />With their long leaves, cast in a flood, <br />Is closer to a dream, that scourges, <br />And longer lives in our heart. <br /> <br />Deploring groves their own, <br />Their meadows – with bitter tears, <br />Tell birches to cold wind alone <br />Their common sufferings and fears. <br /> <br />Believing that the whole ground <br />Is motherland of sacred grieves, <br />The weeping willow all around <br />Inclines its branches with long leaves.<br /><br />Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-always-like-the-northern-birches/
