What song is in thy heart,
Thou puny tree?
Weak pinelet that thou art,—
Trembling at every shock,
Thy feebleness doth mock
Thy high degree.
When rage o'er sea and land
The trumpets wild,
How canst thou e'er withstand
Their might, or baffle them
With that frail, quivering stem,
Poor forest child?
Nay, wherefore scoff at thy
Dimensions small?
For, folded close, I spy
A wee, wee bud, scarce seen
Within its cradle green;
And, after all,
In ages yet to come
Thy stately form,
No longer dwarfed and dumb,
But chanting to the breeze
Sublime, sweet melodies,
Shall breast the storm!
Beneath thine outstretched arms
Shall children rest;
While, safe from all alarms,
Within thy shadows deep
Wild birds their tryst shall keep
And weave their nest.
May such a lot be his
Who tends thee now!
With heavenly harmonies
Serene amid his foes,
Outstretching as he grows
In root and bough.
