I heard the swaying pine trees speak,
As I went down the glen:
“Next year,” said one, “the wind shall seek,
But find me not again!”
“I shall go forth upon the seas,
A mast, or steering-beam;
On me shall breathe the tropic breeze,
Above, strange stars shall gleam.’
“And I — the ax shall cleave my grain,
And many times divide;
From my dear brood I'll shed the rain,
And roof their ingleside.”
Then up and spake a slender shaft,
That like an arrow grew;
“No breeze my leafless stem shall waft,
No ax my trunk shall hew —
But though a single hour is mine,
How happy shall I be!
Young hearts shall leap, young eyes shall shine
To greet their Christmas tree!”