The treetops close in at sunrise,
Blocking the sunlight from view;
Shading the earth and the saplings,
So little light trickling through.
But the wind rises at nightfall,
Blowing aside the trees' green shawl;
And the pale clouds left and right fly,
Showing the moon as it rides high.
The treetops open at moonrise,
Bathing the ground in starlight;
Young leaves in moonbeams turn silver,
As the sky darkens in night.