When On The Spring'S Enchanting Blue You Trace Your Slender Leaves And Few, Then Do I Wish Myself Re-Born To Lands Of Hope, To Lands Of Morn. And When You Wear Your Rich Attire, Your Autumn Garments, Touched With Fire, I Want Again That Ardent Soul That Dared The Race And Dreamed The Goal. But, Oh, When Leafless, Dark And High, You Rise Against This Winter Sky, I Hear God'S Word: "Stand Still And See How Fair Is Mine Austerity!"