Poems (Trask)/The Pines
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.