It is a willow when summer is over,
a willow by the river
from which no leaf has fallen nor
bitten by the sun
turned orange or crimson.
The leaves cling and grow paler,
swing and grow paler
over the swirling waters of the river
as if loth to let go,
they are so cool, so drunk with
the swirl of the wind and of the river—
oblivious to winter,
the last to let go and fall
into the water and on the ground.

Poet: William Carlos Williams
Poem: Willow Poem

Are you looking for more information on this poem? Perhaps you are trying to analyze it? The poem, Willow Poem, has received 23 comments. Click here to read them, and perhaps post a comment of your own.