Of a wind-torn twisted tree,

Standing there, marooned forever,

Where its hapless seed had blown,

Miles on miles from forest neighbor,

Struggling out its life alone.

Here he stopped, with head uncovered,

Conscious of a strange appeal,

Yielding to the voiceless longing

Human hearts are bound to feel

When their lot is isolation,

And a field of sterile soil

Dwarfs and twists the struggling spirit

As the body bends with toil.

20  

Here, that subtle, silent craving,

Which with life will never end,

Of the lonesome and the needy

For the comfort of a friend,

Drew the trav'ler to this tree waif,

And he spread his outfit near,

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