In scornful upright loneliness they stand,Counting themselves no kin of anythingWhether of earth or sky. Their gnarled roots clingLike wasted fingers of a clutching handIn the grim rock. A silent spectral bandThey watch the old sky, but hold no communingWith aught. Only, when some lone eagle’s wingFlaps past above their grey and desolate land,Or when the wind pants up a rough-hewn glen,Bending them down as with an age of thought,Or when, ‘mid flying clouds that can not dullHer constant light, the moon shines silver, thenThey find a soul, and their dim moan is wroughtInto a singing sad and beautiful.
I tend toward more contemporary poetry usually, but this struck me as worth sharing.