THE CYPRESS.
BY L. E. L.
Thou graceful tree,
With thy green branches drooping,
As to yon blue heaven stooping,
In meek humility.
Like one who patient grieves,
When the fierce wind's o'er thee sweeping,
Thou answerest but by weeping,
While tear-like fall thy green leaves.
When summer flowers have birth,
And the sun is o'er thee shining,
Yet with thy slight boughs declining,
Still thou seekest the earth.
Thy leaves are ever green:
When other trees are changing,
With the seasons o'er them ranging;
Thou art still as thou hast been.
