What hand did plant these maple trees br And set them in a bed of stone? br Away from verdant woodland br Where their roots can't grow nor spread, br No place have they amongst this town br To dwell within a crumbling tomb, br And sentanced now to live amongst br The lowly urban dead. br br What if their boughs could shade a field? br And capture morning sun with glee, br Not swamped beneath the rooftops br Where the light so rarely falls, br Confined upon this dreary street br And trapped within a solemn cage, br To gaze between the bars and see br Those gloomy red bricked walls. br br Weep on, weep on your golden leaves br Which fall from high unto the ground, br And cloak the gum and litter br That has gathered through the years, br Make patterns on the pavement slabs br Bring colour to this ashen plain, br And I shall keep believing br Through the pain of autumn tears.