The White Tree

Upon a cliff, that towers o’er

A stricken land below,

There sleeps, or so says ancient lore,

A tree, from gods bestowed.


E’er lands beneath had crowned their kings,

Or wars of legend waged,

This sapling young stood, glimmering,

Through slowly passing age;


Forgotten now, upon the stone,

And brittle in the wind,

Yet roots run deep, and sap is strong,

It shall not break, but bend.


And legends say when spring returns,

And wars at last are done,

The life within its boughs shall burn

Beneath the gleaming sun.


So press through winter’s chill and wind,

Let hope live in your breast;

For soon the white tree blooms again,

And lands at last shall rest.

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