Tree-leaves which, till the growing season's done,
Change into wood the powers of the sun,
Take from that radiance only reds and blues.
Green is the color that they cannot use,
And so their rustling myriads are seen
To wear all summer an extraneous green,
A green with no apparent role, unless
To be the symbol of a great largesse
Which has no end, though autumns may revoke
That shade from yellowed ash and rusted oak.
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