The virgin pattern of its slender wood,
That courtesied in joy to every breeze;
But scath’d, but knotted trunks that raise on high
Their arms in stiff contortion, strain’d and bare;
Whose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh.
So, little children, ye—nay nay, ye ne’er
From me shall learn how sure the change and nigh,
When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share.
43
When parch’d with thirst, astray on sultry sands