The wounded tree is weeping now, Suffering from Nature's blows And the uncaring souls of men. The grace of blossoms it bestows
On pilgrim, devotee, and saint, Cooling with its verdant shade Those who have come in offering And under its arching branches prayed.
Shall we who bore her touch, her love Do nothing in its needful hour, Saying, "It is but a tree (Ascribing to ourselves such power!)
And sooner or later it must die," She who gave it to my care Who guides us on the sunlit way Of our least acts is most aware
And our neglect or apathy. Thy splendour dawn in us to see No mere tree but a sacred fane Guarding the ageless mystery.
Then let us willingly agree, To work in newfound harmony, And through our work protect and serve This guardian of divinity.
Poems Undated (1727)
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