On the River Bank

They stand upon the brinkFifteen feet I thinkAbove the water’s edgeAnd the marshy sedge,

Standing in a rowAs trees are wont to growAlong a bank or fenceWhere seeds were scattered hence.

You ask about their name?It will not be the same.Seven or eight we seeOf different kinds of tree.

You ask how they can standUpon that narrow strandWhere waves against them drive,And winds their branches rive?

These trees have labored longTo make their roots so strong.They’ve struggled to surviveThe daily adverse tide.

Back in the forest deepOther trees supinely sleep.Secure they seem to thinkThey stand not on the brink.

Slight rooted in the ground,Their comrades cluster round;They do not have to strive;How easily they thrive.

When gales and storms descendThey each on each dependIn vain. Though straight and tall,With thundering crash, they fall.

But trees upon the bankStill stand in serried rank;They taunt the wintry blast;Their sturdy roots hold fast.