In scornful upright loneliness they stand,

Counting themselves no kin of anything

Whether of earth or sky. Their gnarled roots cling

Like wasted fingers of a clutching hand

In the grim rock. A silent spectral band

They watch the old sky, but hold no communing

With aught. Only, when some lone eagle's wing

Flaps past above their grey and desolate land,

Or when the wind pants up a rough-hewn glen,

Bending them down as with an age of thought,

Or when, 'mid flying clouds that can not dull

Her constant light, the moon shines silver, then

They find a soul, and their dim moan is wrought

Into a singing sad and beautiful.

This poem is in the public domain.