Trunk and branches are smooth and grey;
(Ash-grey, my honey!)
The buds of the Ash-tree, black are they;
(And the days are long and sunny.)
The leaves make patterns against the sky,
(Blue sky, my honey!)
And the keys in bunches hang on high;
(To call them “keys” is funny!)
Each with its seed, the keys hang there,
(Still there, my honey!)
When the leaves are gone
and the woods are bare;
(Short days may yet be sunny.)