Year after year I see the trees unfold
Their baby leaves to the maturing sun;
Then tender birth of blossoms, one by one,
From parent stems that still their nurture hold;
Later the tall green corn takes on its gold,
Crowned with the glory of a purpose done;
And last, the sands of beauty being run,
All things decline into the common mould.
Age after age whirls on the appointed round
Of mortal destiny; old thoughts take bloom;
And new minds battle in the time-worn strife,
Death’s winter nips before the task is crowned,
And, soon or late, within oblivion’s tomb
Men fall like leaves from God’s great tree of life.