I heard the swaying pine trees speak,

As I went down the glen:

“Next year,” said one, “the wind shall seek,

But find me not again!”

“I shall go forth upon the seas,

A mast, or steering-beam;

On me shall breathe the tropic breeze,

Above, strange stars shall gleam.”

“And I—the ax shall cleave my grain,

And many times divide;

From my dear brood I’ll shed the rain,

And roof their ingleside.”

Then up and spake a slender shaft,

That like an arrow grew;

“No breeze my leafless stem shall waft,

No ax my trunk shall hew—

But though a single hour is mine,

How happy shall I be!

Young hearts shall leap, young eyes shall shine

To greet their Christmas tree!”