Thou springest from the ground, and may not I
From Him who speeds thy branches high and wide;
And from the scorching sun and stormy sky
May I not too with friendly shelter hide;
There is no shade like thine to shield the poor,
From the hot scorching words that meet the ear;
The snowy, frozen flakes they must endure,
Of those whose hearts have never shed a tear;
Yet He who shoots thy leafy fabric high,
Shall in my verse spread wide a tempering skreen,
And when oppressed with heat his sons pass by,
With hastening feet they'll seek its arches green;
And bless the Father who has o'er them spread
A tent of verdure for their aching head.