92 ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



THE SPIRIT OF THE PINE. 



ALL outward wisdom yields to that within, 

 Whereof nor creed nor canon holds the key ; 

 We only feel that we have ever been, 

 And evermore shall be. 



And thus I know, by memories unfurled 



In rarer moods, and many a -nameless sign, 



That once in Time, and somewhere in the world, 

 I was a towering Pine, 



Rooted upon a cape that overhung 



The entrance to a mountain gorge ; whereon 



The wintry shade of a peak was flung, 

 Long after rise of sun. 



******* 



There did I clutch the granite with firm feet, 



There shake my boughs above the roaring gulf, 



When mountain whirlwinds through the passes beat, 

 And howled the mountain wolf. 



There did I louder sing than all the floods 



Whirled in white foam adown the precipice, 



And the sharp sleet that stung the naked woods 

 Answer with sullen hiss : 



But when the peaceful clouds rose white and high 

 On blandest airs that April skies could bring, 



Through all my fibres thrilled the tender sigh, 

 The sweet unrest of spring. 



She with warm fingers laced in mine, did melt 



In fragrant balsam my reluctant blood ; 

 And with a smart of keen delight I felt 



The sap in every bud, 



And tingled through my rough old bark, and fast 



Pushed out the younger green, that smoothed my tones. 



When last year's needles to the wind I cast, 

 And shed my scaly cones. 



I held the eagle till the mountain mist 



Rolled from the azure paths he came to soar, 



And like a hunter, on my gnarlfed wrist 

 The dappled falcon bore. 



