Amphitheater White Pine

     O lonely pine
Upon your granite cliff,
I know your pain --
Tossing your weird arms
To the mighty winds,
Beating your ragged breast
With shrunken hands.
I know your pain, 
For I have stood
On such high, dawn-kissed peaks,
And flung my arms
And beat with futile hands,
Because I still was held
To stone and clod
By sullen roots
Of unremembered lives.


To a Mountain Pine, by Anna Spence Twitchell