Classic Poem

He plants an annual, you plant an acorn,
Both will be beautiful, by and by;
Sealed in their sepulchres, veiled from your vision,
Alike for a little while they lie.
Softly the sunlight will fall where they slumber,
On them will filter the rain and dew;
Standing together, you look where you laid them;
Counting the moons as the Indians do.

A brief waiting only; the brown earth will open,
Up from its grave will the annual rise;
He who is standing so patient beside you,
Will look at his treasure with joy in his eyes.
He'll pluck a gay blossom to wear in his bosom,
Its beauty and fragrance will please him an hour;
The seed that he planted has come to perfection,
Not long did he wait for his fair little flower.

Now what will you do, for your acorn grows slowly,
So slow that its growth must be counted by years;
There's no one to praise it, and more and more lowly,
You grow as you water the plant with your tears;
You know that its roots are in league with the granite,
You know that its branches will seek for the sky;
But O the long strain on your faith and your patience!
Your hair is like silver, the years hurry by.

At last you lie down in your life's western chamber,
All watching is over, your hope has come true;
And smiling you look at the mighty oak branches,
Now waving between the red sunset and you.
O what was the waiting, and what was the weeping!
Now, now that the day of your crowning has come.
For in the near Heaven are many tongues crying,
“Thou planter of acorns, well done and well done!”

He plants an annual, you plant an acorn,
Both will be beautiful, by and by;
Sealed in their sepulchres, veiled from your vision,
Alike for a little while they lie.
Softly the sunlight will fall where they slumber,
On them will filter the rain and dew;
Standing together, you look where you laid them;
Counting the moons as the Indians do.

A brief waiting only; the brown earth will open,
Up from its grave will the annual rise;
He who is standing so patient beside you,
Will look at his treasure with joy in his eyes.
He'll pluck a gay blossom to wear in his bosom,
Its beauty and fragrance will please him an hour;
The seed that he planted has come to perfection,
Not long did he wait for his fair little flower.

Now what will you do, for your acorn grows slowly,
So slow that its growth must be counted by years;
There's no one to praise it, and more and more lowly,
You grow as you water the plant with your tears;
You know that its roots are in league with the granite,
You know that its branches will seek for the sky;
But O the long strain on your faith and your patience!
Your hair is like silver, the years hurry by.

At last you lie down in your life's western chamber,
All watching is over, your hope has come true;
And smiling you look at the mighty oak branches,
Now waving between the red sunset and you.
O what was the waiting, and what was the weeping!
Now, now that the day of your crowning has come.
For in the near Heaven are many tongues crying,
“Thou planter of acorns, well done and well done!”