Ye who have passed Death's haggard hills; and ye <br />Whom trees that knew your sires shall cease to know <br />And still stand silent:—is it all a show,— <br />A wisp that laughs upon the wall?—decree <br />Of some inexorable supremacy <br />Which ever, as man strains his blind surmise <br />From depth to ominous depth, looks past his eyes, <br />Sphinx-faced with unabashèd augury? <br />Nay, rather question the Earth's self. Invoke <br />The storm-felled forest-trees moss-grown to-day <br />Whose roots are hillocks where the children play; <br />Or ask the silver sapling 'neath what yoke <br />Those stars, his spray-crown's clustering gems, shall wage <br />Their journey still when his boughs shrink with age.<br /><br />Dante Gabriel Rossetti<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-lxxxix-the-trees-of-the-garden/
