The Trees The trees, the trees, they whisper low, In silent tones, or wild and free, Each duty met, each blossom’s glow, Like truths and tales of what can be.

Where shadows reel on scapes of gold, And branches gesture, sweeping grace, The breeze unfolds a story told, Of ancient woods, a sacred space.

Each leaf that trembles in delight, Each hue that sinks in setting sun, A testament to day and night, To all the journeys I have run.

Oh feel the roots beneath us cling, A union forged of earth and sky, For every dawn and every spring, The trees and I shall never die.

— Excerpt from “The Trees” (not an actual poem of Melville)

• Herman Melville