Thou tall, majestic monarch of the wood,That standeth where no wild vines dare to creep,Men call thee old, and say that thou hast stoodA century upon my rugged steep;Yet unto me thy life is but a day,When I recall the things that I have seen,—The forest monarchs that have passed awayUpon the spot where first I saw thy green;For I am older than the age of man,Or all the living things that crawl or creep,Or birds of air, or creatures of the deep;I was the first dim outline of God's plan,—Only the waters of the restless seaAnd the infinite stars in heaven are old to me.
