The Pine

Tall as a mast in morning light Stands our old pine against the sky, A sentinel upon the height To watch the wheeling days go by.

His dark boughs etched against the blue Are like a print of old Japan,— Some war-god marking the review Of the mysterious march of man.

Eastward above the sleeping land He sees the growing dawn unfold, Until the Holyoke ranges stand Purpled against the silent gold.

He sees the city far below Wake to its toil with smoke and steam, And miles of meadow in the glow Of Indian summer, touched with dream.

He sees the silver moon appear Above the river's curving line, And when the chill of dusk draws near, The homing lights flash out and shine.

Unwearying through snow and rain He signals courage from the steep, And when night settles on the plain He has his starry watch to keep.

Then when the winter storms arise, And the gay leaves are fled in fear,— In a great grieving voice he cries His reassurance, "I am here!"