Classic Poem

Remote in woods where thrushes chant;
Or on some lonely mountain slope;
Or in a copse, the cuckoo's haunt—
With fingers pointing to the cope,
There stands a tree, there stands a tree,
Must fall before they bury me.

O waiting heart, where 'er thou art,
At last thy dust with mine shall blend;
For though we spend our days apart,
We come together at the end;
And thou with me, and I with thee,
Must lie in perfect unity.

Within a cramped confine of space,
And owning naught of earth beside,
That heart must be my dwelling-place
For whom the world was not too wide.
A new-time Dryad, mine must be
The shape that shall inhabit thee.

Perchance in some lone wandering
On thine old roots I may have lain,
And heard above the wood-birds sing,
While God looked down upon us twain;
And did I feel no thrill, with thee,
Of fellowship and sympathy?

Is thy strong heart ne'er wearied out
With standing 'neath the overfreight
Of boughs that compass thee about,
With mass of green, or white, a-weight?
O patient tree, O patient tree!
Dost never long for rest, like me?

I know thou spreadest grateful shade
When fierce the noontide sun doth beat;
And birds their nests in thee have made,
And cattle rested at thy feet:
Heaven grant I make this life of mine
As beautiful and brave as thine!

And when thy circling cloak is doffed
Thou standest on the storm-swept sod
And liftest thy long arms aloft
In mute appealing to thy God:
Appeal for me, appeal for me,
That I may stand as steadfastly.

Let me fulfil my destiny
And calmly wait for thee, O friend!
For thou must fall, and I must die,
And come together at the end—
To quiet slumbering addressed;
Shut off from storm; shut in for rest.

Thus lying in God's mighty hand
While His great purposes unfold,
We'll feel, as was from Chaos planned,
His breath inform our formless mould:
New shape for thee, new life for me,
For both, a vast eternity.