Classic Poem

Where , old and gray, the mountain rears its head,
In sunlit silence stands a lonely tree.
Far off along the valley you can see,
When evening glories gather gold and red,
Its sombre shadow: for the ages fled
It seems a sentinel. Winds whistle free
Down from the North o'er many a wide degree,
And sing weird dirges for its comrades dead.
Yet tall and straight it rises, firm and strong
It hails the flying years that hurry by,
And flings defiance to the tempest's might,
A noble poet, full of deathless song
That rings aloud, or dark, or bright the sky,
Rich with hope's promise, and sweet beauty's light.