Poems (Trask)/The Pines

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

THE PINES.

Above the highland ridge they lift
 Their belt of sombre green;
The meadows and the silvery stream
 In silence lie between.
The pale-leaved beeches and the elms
 Wave in the lightest breeze;
But it would need a rude, fierce blast
 To sway these old pine-trees.

Stern sentinels for many a year,
 What changes have o'erswept
The land they look on, since their watch
 In solemn state they've kept!
They've heard the songs of other days
 From other lips than ours,—
A hundred Junes have smiled on them,
 Spicy and sweet with flowers.

They've seen the smoke of many a cot
 Rise bluely on the air,
From happy hearths that now are cold,
 And desolate, and bare.
Beneath their shadow lie the graves
 Of those who, long ago,
Like us, looked up to see the light
 Of sunset fade and glow.

The night descends, the red flush fades,
 The pines are black with gloom,—
I shut the window, and give thought
 And olden memories room;
And, like a breath of rare perfume,
 Stealing through sweet lush vines,
Come thoughts of days, bright summer days,
 Amid the dark old pines.