^TORM - BEATEN 
CCARRED of bole and twisted of limb. 
By the beach stands an ancient tree, 
Bowed by a thousand storms that have swept 
Up from the angry sea. 
Blasts of the north have rent its crown 
But its vigor is unsubdued ; 
And it lives not in vain — there is joy in its midst. 
It is home to the wild bird's brood. 
In the world's workshop toils a man, 
Misshapen through ceaseless strife ; 
Graceless of form, but his soul is aglow — 
He is guard of a woman's life. 
15 
