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 stood A 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 away Upon 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 sea And the infinite stars in heaven are old to me.
