O proud old tree! O loneliest tree!
Thy strong-limbed brothers have passed from thee;--
One by one they've been swept away,
And thou alone--of the centuries grey
That have come and gone since thy hour of birth,
And left their scars on the patient earth--
Remainest to speak to the world and me
Of hoarded secrets that dwell with thee.

What of thy birth-hour? what of thy prime?
Who trod the wastes in that olden time?
Who gathered flowers where thy shadows lay?
Who sought thy coolness at noon of day?
What warrior chieftains, what woodland maids,
Looked up to thee from the dusky glades?
Who warred and conquered, who lived and died
In those far off years of the forest's pride?

No voice, no answer! So I, too, speak,
Yet mine, as the insect's call, is weak
To break thy silence, thou lonely tree,
Or win a whispered reply from thee.
Yet, teacher mine, thou hast taught my heart
What soon from its records will not depart--
A lesson of patience, a lesson of power,
Of courage that fails not in danger's hour,
Of calm endurance through winter's gloom,
Of patient waiting for summer's bloom,
And, heavenward gazing, through storm and night,
Like thee to watch for the dawning light.