XIII TO THE FIRS

I LOVE the oak-grove where the Druid’s knife Cut down the mistletoe in days of old; I love the elms around the convent fold Where souls escape the dust of highway life.

I love to watch the tiny milk-white spires That on the chestnut branches lift their head; I love to see the rowan growing red With clusters bright as frosty winter fires.

But better still I love you, firs that crest The lonely hill above the moaning firth, Beside the path where bluebells gently nod.

To your grey arms, ere sunset leaves the West, I can confide each sorrow at its birth, For you have known the waves and storms of God.