Fir Trees

Little green, green fir trees,

Trooping down the headlands

Where the old sea tugs and seethes

At the farthest ledges—

Little bristling fir trees,

No one trims your branches;

Woodsmen with their axes sharp

Always pass you by.

Never shall you tower

Like your inland neighbors;

You the wind and sea have kept

Small as gypsy children,

Shaggy-haired and shy,

Crowding close together

Wrapt in cloaks of tattered green

Your sharp brown arms poke through—

Little sea-dwarfed fir trees,

Luckier than your fellows,

Young as waves and fairies are,

And every wise small star.