I’ve kept my long-established place And I am solid—crown to base; My heart is sound, my bole is straight, My limbs hang with an even weight, I do not sag and there is no Near gully where the freshets flow To undermine my roots. God planned It so, and by his grace I’ll stand Against the centuries still. So will I fill My destiny— To be A messenger—to carry on, to give Tomorrow’s children who shall live When this fair present’s passed away, The legend of my yesterday.
A SPRUCE’S ROOT
I am the grisly claws Of this crestfallen spruce that was. Almighty tall he grew and straight— I bore his Lordship’s weight For some odd centuries, and great It was to see a tree so fine In bulk and splendid in design. His portly tons increased with age While I sprawled in the cellarage, And when winds tossed his noble head I knew how shallow was my bed, For in my youth I led A rambling life, quite free from toil; I sucked the soggy surface-soil, I did not deem it worth The while to pierce the deeper earth To make my base a solid thing Against the days of reckoning. My tangled talons forked far out, They squirmed and twisted round about, They radiated from my crown— They went along but never down.
Once now and then some minstrel breezes strolled Our way—they bowled Old-timers down. The ground Was strewn with windfalls all around; A rendezvous For every breeze that blew For miles—a test I’ll warrant for the best Of trees and doom for all the rest. Great strapping fellows—hale and well To look upon, but how they fell! A crack! A bump! A splintered, jagged stump! And how the pride of some did smart To have a rotted heart Torn open thus—relentlessly exposed! Meanwhile his Lordship posed— The peer without a flaw! And he was held in very proper awe— He saw his rivals snapped like straws, And still he stood—while I dug in my claws.
I knew that it would come—some gust would blow To spill him low. His great bole swayed And trembled like a barley-blade, His lifelong balance-line he tottered past— The die was cast, For there was no rebound. The ground Ripped as he rocked And with the crash my roots unlocked.
In such a wise—upturned by fate, I was exalted from my low estate. I am a monstrous thing to see, A flat, misshapen prodigy Of towsie tentacles and mud and stones And twisted bones— A ghastly secret raised to smear This forest nobleman’s career.