The Pine Woods

We stand upon the moorish mountain side,
From age to age, a solemn company;
There are no voices in our paths, but we
Hear the great whirlwinds roaring loud and wide;
And like the sea-waves have our boughs replied,
From the beginning, to their stormy glee;
The thunder rolls above us, and some tree
Smites with his bolt, yet doth the race abide,

Answering all times; but joyous, when the sun
Glints on the peaks that clouds no longer bear,
And the young shoots to flourish have begun,
And the quick seeds through the blue odorous air
From the expanding cones fall one by one;
And silence as in temples dwelleth there.