In scornful upright loneliness they stand, Counting themselves no kin of anything Whether of earth or sky. Their gnarled roots cling Like wasted fingers of a clutching hand In the grim rock. A silent spectral band They watch the old sky, but hold no communing With aught. Only, when some lone eagle's wing Flaps past above their grey and desolate land, Or when the wind pants up a rough-hewn glen, Bending them down as with an age of thought, Or when, 'mid flying clouds that can not dull Her constant light, the moon shines silver, then They find a soul, and their dim moan is wrought Into a singing sad and beautiful.
This poem is in the public domain.