This tree among the cobbles set,

With waving head and rugged feet,

All mem remember and forget,

But as they die it towers yet Above the cobbled street.

The poppies and the swaying corn Remembered lie within its girth Before the cold gray town was born,

When men rose earlier than the morn To wake the sleeping earth.

In solemn isolation left

When all it's comrades swayed and fell . . .

Upon its heart each cruel cleft

Beat home, and crack of steel so deft . . .

It stood for ill or well.

It watched the common houses grow And huddle in its ancient shade,

Where com and poppies used to blow,

It saw the houses row on row The hands of man had made.

For where the cattle sleek would roam Among the tufts of flowered grass Mankind had built an ugly home,

And in and out, as bees a comb,

Incessantly would pass.

And men go up, and men go down This cobbled street a hundred years,

And death and life are in the town,

And weeping, swift all hope to drown,

. . . And a thousand fears.

But ever to the tree’s deep heart Their secrecies, dear as its leaves,

Lie all unfolded, close, a part Of life; it knows their mortal art,

. . . And grieves.

Edwin Essex, O.P.