You lift your head so high,
Do you hold up the sky?
Fir Tree. [Shaking his head.]
Oh no, indeed, sweet Rose
It surely is not I!
It may be this lofty elm,
Who stands to me so nigh.
Elm. No, no, it is not I.
But a mountain very tall
In the distance I can spy,
And on his shoulders rests,
I think, the wondrous sky.
[Calling to the mountain.]
You lift your head so high,
Do you hold up the sky?
Mountain. And who is it who would
For these secrets pry?
I’ve stood here many an age,
But I never touched the sky.
Rose. Sweet Daisy, dearest friend,
I fear before we die
We never shall find out
Who is holding up the sky.
[A bird alights on the fir tree.]
Daisy and Rose. [Together.]
O Bird, you fly up so high,
Will you not please tell us
Who is holding up the sky?
Bird. ’Tis He who made the daisy
And He who made the rose;
’Tis He who made the fir tree,
The elm, and all that grows.