The Fir-tree pointed his finger-tips To the lowering sky— The poor little posies, the lilies, and roses Looked ready to die! But bravely the Fir-tree, The evergreen Fir-tree, Was pointing on high.
The Fir-tree pointed his fingers slim Through the wintry rain; The roots of the roses, the seeds of the posies— He heard them complain; But always the Fir-tree, The uplooking Fir-tree, Saw blue sky again.
The Fir-tree ’s pointing his fingers green Like a prophet of cheer; And if, like the posies, the lilies, and roses, You worry or fear, Look up to the Fir-tree! “You know,” says the Fir-tree, “’T is God’s world, my dear!”
