The icy, gnarly elm alone
in the dell, just beyond the spruces,
has taken on to moan and groan
and wonder of her uses;
to worry in the winter scene
where none but harshness grows—
and the cold wind blows.
Yet even so, the elm stands firm,
though the weighted ice is building,
and there lies at core a diseasing worm
as the branches soon are breaking;
forbidding is the winter scene
in which all things are made weak—
where the plight looks bleak.
But there is remembrance of who one is,
as the sun shines on and sparkles,
even through the strain and brittleness
there is reason still for marvels;
hostile may the winter scene become
and the stressful toll long—
but her trust is strong.