Classic Poem

Hard by the western portal now we wait
To deck the rugged walls of Golden Gate,
That stand athwart the azure ocean old,
To frame the picture rare of blue and gold.

And looking backward toward the crested town,
Behold, there seems a forest moving down;
I cry aloud, like Scotland's ancient thane,
Great Birnam's wood now comes to Dunsinane!

Not so? Then have these cauldron witches lied!
For those who come march not with martial stride;
These boughs hide not a horde of mailed men
Whose numbers and whose force ye dinna ken;

But these are children, garlands in their hand,
Who now upon the city's highway stand,
Like those of old who sang Judea's psalms
And strewed the Lord's highway with fragrant palms;
And if they would the same Hosannas cry,
No doubt they 'd see the Savior passing by.

Each little arm enfolds a tiny tree;
Pray, children, tell what may your mission be?
Wherefore these shrubs? They may not be for shade;
For what, the trowel and the tiny spade?
You children all, I think, should be in school;
Mayhap you 've run away and broke the rule,
And come out here upon the moor to play—
What's that you tell me?—This is Arbor Day?

So you are out to worship Nature now,
And place a lasting garland on her brow—
Eternal wreath, a glory ever more—
Far better crown than monarch ever bore.

What music, when the little shovels speed
To break the earth with most unhallowed greed!
Look! in a trice those scanty graves are made
Whose resurrection is the coming shade.

A lesson this: Let each one plant his own,
And nations spare the trees already grown.
How great a good can come from little things—
These twigs may be the future forest kings.

Dig deep the earth and lay the roots with care,
And God will tend what you have planted there.
Oft watch its growth and you may ever know
How Heaven perfects what man begins below.

All praise to him who gave this notion birth!
They plant a tree to beautify the earth;
And there we leave them in their matchless glee,
Those laughing children by the laughing sea.