The Pine

The pine tree stands all earnest, still, In proud embrace of fragrant hill, Through twilight shivers and the eves, Where deepened shadows softly weave.

So near the crickets chirping there, The whisper of the crisp cool air; Each breath, a spice of forest cream, Wrapped fast in all the woods’ sweet dream.

Oh, let the waves that chorus sing, In tune with every passing wing— As breezes carry all their care, From waving pine, on wings of prayer.

• James Russell Lowell