The Old Tree

by John Vance Cheney

John Vance Cheney

Yon shape, so pitiful, once stood,

The Saul of his proud brotherhood;

Tempest, at last, and length of days

Have mastered; lo, the king decays.

Time was when gravely to his shade,

At noon, the lordlier cattle strayed;

And from his top, at morn, rang clear

The bravest song of all the year.

He sighs, is silent, sighs again, —

" One fate we have, O sons of men!

These empty hands upheld in air,

It is your own last reach of prayer. "

Last updated January 14, 2019