Poems (Hardy)/My beech-tree
MY BEECH-TREE
I KNOW a tree whose branches meetAbove my head, beneath my feet,In arches green, in shadows sweet.
I know not whether now its leavesStill whisper in October eves,Or May its springtime splendor weaves.
It may be dead and turned to dust,But somewhere, still, persistent trustBelieves it lives, is sure it must.
Though cooler reason would put byThis subtle theme with how, and why,This faith survives,—it did not die.
Within my thought its branches wave,Its rain-wet leaves my forehead lave,It still gives all that once it gave.
Yet, half way up in its strong arms,I sit and feel the thrill that charmsIts own cool life and mine from harms.
No leaf of it can ever fade;In something of myself arrayed,It was therewith immortal made.