Pattern

Some believe the slumber

Of trees is in December

When timber's naked under sky

And squirrel keeps his chamber.

But I believe their fibres

Awake to life and labour

When turbulence comes roaring up

The land in loud October,

And plunders, strips, and sunders

And sends the leaves to wander

And undisguises prickly shapes

Beneath the golden splendour.

Then form returns. In warmer,

Seductive days, disarming

Its firmer will, the wood grew soft

And put forth dreams to murmur.

Into earnest winter

With spirit alert it enters;

The hunter wind and the hound frost

Have quelled the green enchanter.

Poems - C.S. Lewis (1964)