The trunks of Beeches are smooth and grey,
Like tall straight pillars of stone
In great cathedrals where people pray;
Yet from tiny things they've grown.
About their roots is the moss; and wide
Their branches spread, and high
It seems to us, on the earth, who bide,
That their heads are in the sky.
And when Spring is here,
and their leaves appear
With a silky fringe on each,
Nothing is seen so new and green
As the new young green of Beech.
O the great grey Beech is young, is young,
When, dangling soft and small,
Round balls of bloom from its twigs are hung,
And the sun shines over all