Sonnet LXXXIX: The Trees of the Garden
Ye who have passed Death’s haggard hills; and ye
Whom trees that knew your sires shall cease to know
And still stand silent:—is it all a show,—
A wisp that laughs upon the wall?—decree
Of some inexorable supremacy
Which ever, as man strains his blind surmise
From depth to ominous depth, looks past his eyes,
Sphinx—faced with unabashèd augury?
Nay, rather question the Earth’s self. Invoke
The storm—felled forest—trees moss—grown to—day
Whose roots are hillocks where the children play;
Or ask the silver sapling 'neath what yoke
Those stars, his spray—crown’s clustering gems, shall wage
Their journey still when his boughs shrink with age.
