Rotary Glade, Westonbirt Arboretum Why blow'st thou not, thou wintry wind, Now every leaf is brown and sere, And idly droops, to thee resigned, The fading chaplet of the year? Yet wears the pure aerial sky Her summer veil, half drawn on high, Of silvery haze, and dark and still The shadows sleep on every slanting hill. How quiet shows the woodland scene! Each flower and tree, its duty done, Reposing in decay serene, like weary men when age is won, Such calm old age as conscience pure And self-commanding hearts ensure, Waiting their summons to the sky, Content to live, but not afraid to die. Sure if our eyes were purged to trace God's unseen armies hovering round, We should behold by angels' grace The four strong winds of Heaven fast bound, Their downward sweep a moment stayed On ocean cove and forest glade, Till the last flower of autumn shed Her funeral odours on her dying bed. So in Thine awful armoury, Lord, The lightnings of the judgment-day Pause yet awhile, in mer...