BY A. M. F. A.
In their perpetual green the stately pines
Rear their round columns on the mountain’s side,
While lowland trees, with their meek, clinging vines,
Unsightly all, amidst the landscape wide,
Are bared of every robe and wreath of pride.
Yet little love or joy our glance betrays,
Which rests upon the emerald crowns that hide
Those regal heads; unto the lowliest sprays,
Mourning the palest leaf of summer days,
We turn us sadly from their living sheen;
Sternly unyielding it hath never been
Faded, and from our anxious watching strown,
And in their sympathies our natures lean
To things whose doom reminds us of our own.