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Robert Laurence Binyon - To A Solitary Fir—Tree
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Fir, that on this moor austere,
 Without kin or neighbour near,
 Utterest now bleak winter`s moan
 As if its vext soul were thine own!
 Unbefriended, placed like thee,
 Ah, how lonely should I be!
 But luminous midsummer nights,
 Faintly filled with starry lights,
 Morns miraculously clear
 In the soft youth of the year,
 Autumn mists and evenings chill,
 Find thee proudly patient still:
 None can mar thy steadfast mood,
 Thy stanch and stately fortitude.
 Had I no heart, to strive, to crave,
 I too, perchance, could be as brave!
 But oh, to crave and not be filled,
 With passionate longing never stilled,
 Desiring in the midst of bliss,
 Thou, strong Tree, thou know`st not this:
 The outstretched arms, the hungry eyes,
 Gazing up to silent skies,
 Beautiful, silent skies of June,
 And radiant mystery of the moon!
 To buy peace, we men forget:
 But peace is in thy fibres set.
 If thou art not stirred with joy,
 Thou hast nothing that can cloy;
 Without effort, without strife,
 Art thyself, and liv`st thy life.
 This solitude thou hast not known,
 Both to be human and alone.
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