THE PINE

TO W.F.G.

Tall as a mast in the 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,