Dress me in autumn: and from my once-proud boughs
Drape shrouds of gold. Cut tatters in my robe;
Rip leaves to tassels, unclothe me of my riches;
Expose my trunk and torso to their forms
And see my posture borne to wretched cold.
My colours – my true, my earnest colours – they
Must be dipped in turpentine, so that their dyes
Might run and coalesce, like watermarks
Which blot the oil painting of my summer.
The darks hues run; though my old, knotted legs
Are rheumatoid to stillness and the ague
Of life’s own age. So dress me in this season,
And watch this season wear me to my bones.
Hard to tell whether I was writing in the voice of a tree, an old man, or Treebeard.