A Reed by the River/The Pines

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THE PINES
From their still cloister, whose light
Falls like a spell upon the heart,
Wherein all sound and scent and sight
Hath left each but its spirit's part,

Back to the noisy world we turn
As those who strive to face the sun,—
The morns that jar, the noons that burn,
The days that herald deeds undone.

But walk we softer for that shrine,
And smile at Care's stern unrelease,
For thought of one, far wind-tossed pine,
Tells of its courage and its peace.

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