The elm lets fall its leaves before the frost,
— The very oak grows shivering and sere,
The trees are barren when the summer's lost:
— But one tree keeps its goodness all the year.

Green pine, unchanging as the days go by,
Thou art thyself beneath whatever sky:
— My shelter from all winds, my own strong pine,
— 'Tis spring, 'tis summer, still, while thou art mine.