The poor trees stand and shiver so,
Like ragged beggars in a row,
Without a cloak in frost and snow.
I think it's strange about the trees—
In summer when there's little breeze
They all dress up rich as you please.
No beggars then, but fine and grand
Like Princes of a mighty land
Across the world in rows they stand.
But now in cold they shiver so
Like ragged beggars in a row—
Without a cloak in wind and snow.
