The Tree

The little brown sparrow,
With his tan brown breast,
Hopped into the old dead tree.
And there he chirped and tweeted
As lively as could be.

There were no leaves,
Each branch was dry,
And yet that tree was living;
It stood there proudly, lifted, free,
As it the songs were giving.

And then a robin in there flew—
His breast a merry red.
And that old tree seemed very new;
For sure, it was not dead.

It’s bark was cracked,
It had no sap;
It wasn’t budding, growing.
The other trees all round about
Had flags of green out-flowing.

Yet somehow it seemed very proud
That it held voices cheeping.
Beyond its end it stood unbowed,
Its truth to life still keeping.

And so the minds of greatest men
Their great creations prove,
As we sing loud their greatest works
And they the live world move!

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