And illy would the pine tree’s tassels green
Compare with these broad leaves, so smooth and shining,
Or with the bells of bloom that swing between!”
“Conceited fools!” a gnarly old oak grumbled;
“Bragging of your fine clothes and shape and length!
Bah, with your silly prate and idle prattle!
There is most beauty where there is most strength!”
At that a plain, ill-favored tree took courage,—
“And I, too—I am rugged! I am stout!”
The little saplings sidelong glanced and giggled,