That old unsightly tree,
What moral might it teach,
When it lately tendered me
A melancholy peach!

Its roots in rifted clay,
Its trunk to worm and sun;
Blown down and washed away,
Yet strangely living on.

The very utmost crest
Of that unshadowed hill,
And not, from east to west,
A rival pinnacle!

Beside a cabin, all
As mouldered as itself,
With weeds upon the wall
And a “May-pop” on the shelf.

Of man, or beast, the sole
Successful speculation;
The harvest of a whole
Plantation's desolation!

What moral might it teach,
That old unsightly tree,
As it tendered me a peach,
Acidulous, tho' free!

'Twas thus the peach-tree said:
“Oh, stranger, tell me why,
If this old peach ain't dead,
A peach should ever die?”
But I only shook my head,
And only answered, “Why!”