Standing amid open fields on a planet

That otherwise would be a desert bare,

A poet could but write many a sonnet

About your virtues, among men they are rare,

The earth would be bald and wry,

Making all creatures continually cry,

Sans you fire would all fry,

O majestic trees.

The wind keeps trying to push you down,

Not giving up but constantly trying,

But never are you seen to be wearing a frown

Or like man, give up hopelessly crying,

Victory in combat naught,

But in graceful dances fraught

By your boughs and leaves in draught,

O majestic trees.

Weary the wayfarer sighs beneath your shade,

There's room for all rich and poor,

No airs under your wings of jade,

Whispers of comfort are always sure,

Beckoning souls who are weary,

Hungry, spent and dreary,

You change the sad to cheery,

O majestic trees.

Brown twigs for the poor sans any price,

Juicy fruits the best of your generous gifts,

Fragrance of blossoms heavenward rise,

The air to scent, the soul to lift,

But man cruelly does you slash

To the ground in a flash,

And burns you down to ash,

O majestic trees.