Looking with pity at an old dead tree, How I longed to know its history And whether its life had been beautiful or not! For a tree is somewhat like a friend Whom we cherish and love until the end, And when departed is not forgot. Some day the birds must have loved to nest Deep in the heart of its bright green breast And called it home, where their little ones dear Came to love and grow until the day When they needed no shield and could fly away; Now the tree stands silent and useless here. Don't you suppose when in its prime, And boys climbed into it many a time, It must have chuckled and shaken with pride -- To see how sturdy and strong was its arm, To hold all who came there safe from harm, And then grew old and withered and died? If you should pass into the gray of life, Having borne -- like the tree -- with storm and strife, Perhaps one who knew you would this recall: That your arm held someone back from sin, And helped one in doubt his battle to win, Then what else I say could matter at all? |