The Pines

Throughout the soft and sunlit day
The pennoned pines, in strict array,
Stand grim and silent, gaunt and gray.

But when the blasts of winter keen,
They whisper each to each, and lean
Like comrades with a bond between.

And seeing them deport them so,
One almost thinks they seek to show
How mortal-like mere trees may grow.

For men, in peace time, stand aloof,
One from the other, asking proof
Of lineage and race and roof.

But let the blast of battle call, —
Lo! they're unquestioning comrades all,
Who side by side will stand or fall.