The pines, their tessellated needles Govern their plots of land above the water, Maintain their deeds upon the bower. The powers of nature torment little Lofty pines, which look the forest over.
Not in the storm are needles troubled, Although they break or sweep themselves away. When whipped are they by winds of flashing gray, Although compelled, are scattered, tumble To the earth, and lay a quilt of substrate.
Neither are they encumbered by the fire, Where quenched in flame, their blades untempered Cut as cleanly through the flaming tempest As cones above themselves perched higher Burst, and scatter seeds from overhead.
The pines, their tessellated needles Fear nothing that shall threaten them, Such that a man is best regarding them Who, faced with troubles, are unrivaled. Such courage man may not find equal.