Quotes from Lew Sarett

An ancient maple-tree, a strong sweet tree That has made wild music from the wind and snow For ninety winters; a maple-tree whose arms, Stretching against the rain, the bouncing hail, Has sheltered multitudes of travellers And straggling hosts of elders, wayworn, palsied, And weary with the day,—for ninety summers.

A maple that has yielded up its life Season on sugar-season—oh, what can be More tragic in its beauty than a maple: Swollen and scarred of trunk, and varicose From gashes in the bark, from too many wounds Of too many spiles that let out too much sap, From too much giving, giving for ninety years, For ninety Moons-of-Maple-Sugar-Making, For ninety Moons-of-Gathering-of-Wild-Rice, For ninety Moons-of-the-Falling-of-the-Leaves, For ninety Moons-of-the-Coming-of-the-Snow.