ITS branches up to Heaven a tree is sending,
Rare to see,
For with flowers, fruit, and seed at once is bending
That mystic tree.

Round the giant stem, all rugged, rude, and mossy,
Roses twine,
And the young flowers veil it with their glossy
Hues divine.

The leaves rustle thickly, many-formed,
So green and bright;
The branches spread out broadly to be warmed
In Heaven's light.

Now curve they down, all drooping, to the meadows
And cool springs;
Now upwards on the blue air fling their shadows
Like seraphs' wings.

Pause ye beneath its golden avalanches—
Well it's worth;
For when the breath of Heaven stirs the branches
The fruit falls to earth.

Mocking apes all day there, in their folly,
Play antic wiles;
All night rest the branches, still and holy
As cathedral aisles.

The nightingale, soft in the moonlight singing,
Stops her grief;
For the magic tones of Oreads seem ringing
From every leaf.

The tree is loved by all, but comprehended
Scarce by one;
Yet each basketh in its glory, many-blended,
As 'neath a sun.

Many pause, the bright fruit harvest reaping,
Of golden gleam;
But he who loveth shadow saith in weeping—
Here let me dream.

Lighter spirits, passing, stop where glisten
Brightest flowers;
While others pause, enchanted, but to listen
The music of its bowers.

And he who nothing loveth goes his way,
Unheeding all;
But they who love the universe will say—
Sing on, JEAN PAUL!