THE TREES OF THE GARDEN

Ye who have passed Death's haggard hills; and ye

Whom trees that knew your sires shall cease to know

And still stand silent:— is it all a show,

A wisp that laughs upon the wall?— decree

Of some inexorable supremacy

Which ever, as man strains his blind surmise

From depth to ominous depth, looks past his eyes,

Sphinx-faced with unabashed augury?

Nay, rather question the Earth's self. Invoke

The storm-felled forest-trees moss-grown to-day

Whose roots are hillocks where the children play;

Or ask the silver sapling‘ neath what yoke

Those stars, his spray-crown's clustering gems, shall wage

Their journey still when his boughs shrink with age.