An idle tree, whose timber builds no ships,
Whose wilding growth is all unfit to trace
Trim parallels in park and market-place,
Yet precious for the fragrant dew that drips
From blowing sprays to comfort fevered lips,
For lilt of hidden birds, for changeful grace
Of leafy shade that sunbeams interlace,
For heaven's dear blue about the spiring tips.
The world's great highway takes no heed of it,
Though paths wind thither through the April green.
The earth's blind forces feel no need of it;
Yet was there shaped, before the shaping hours,
A subtle league and sympathy between
This rhythmic tree and all effectual powers.