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Poem	God, what a joy it is to plant a tree, And from the sallow earth to watch it rise, Lifting its emerald branches to the skies In silent adoration; and to see Its strength and glory waxing with each spring. Yes, 'tis a goodly, and a gladsome thing To plant a tree. Nature has many marvels; but a tree Seems more than marvellous. It is divine. So generous, so tender, so benign. Not garrulous like the rivers; and yet free In pleasant converse with the winds and birds; Oh! privilege beyond explaining words, To plant a tree. Rocks are majestic; but, unlike a tree, They stand aloof, and silent. In the roar Of ocean billows breaking on the shore There sounds the voice of turmoil. But a tree Speaks ever of companionship and rest. Yea, of all righteous acts, this, this is best, To plant a tree. There is an oak (oh! how I love that tree) Which has been thriving for a hundred years; Each day I send my blessing through the spheres To one who gave this triple boon to me, Of growing beauty, singing birds, and shade. Wouldst thou win laurels that shall never fade?
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