 | Selections from the American poets |  |
THE LIVING GOD.
There is no death with Thee! Each plant and treeIn living haste their stems push onward still;
The pointed blade, each rooted trunk we see,
In various movement all attest thy will.
The vine must die when its long race is run,
The tree must fall when it no more can rise;
The worm has at its root his task bugun,
And hour by hour his steady labour plies;
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And, as his roots within more deep extend,
He shall o'er sons of sons his branches throw,
And to the latest born his shadows lend;
Nor know in thee disease nor length of days,
But lift his head for ever in thy praise.
| Selections from the American poets | |