THE PINE.

Everett Stanley Hubbard.

It is an organ in the forest nave;

So low of tone the answer of its keys

Beneath the tempest's touch from distant seas

Is like the dreamy thunder of the wave.

And when the storming swoons by cliff and cave.

And drifting calms the diapason frees

Of deepest tones, the wand'ring inland breeze-

Awakens only anthems sweet and grave.

In evanescent strains they almost die,

Then breathe again, and all their breathings seem

To steal from where primeval summers lie

Embalmed, and somnolent as Lethe's stream

The manuals, all million reeded, sigh-

Until reality is lost in dream.

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