The Pine

The elm lets fall its leaves before the frost,

The very oak grows shivering and sere,

The trees are barren when the summer's lost:

But one tree keeps its goodness all the year.

Green pine, unchanging as the days go by,

Thou art thyself beneath whatever sky:

My shelter from all winds, my own strong pine,

'Tis spring, 'tis summer, still, while thou art mine.