Lord, we are setting in this chosen ground
These tender nurselings, trusting in Thy grace
To cherish them through infancy, to guide
Their tiny rootlets through the darksome earth,
To lift their boughs to heaven, and give them power
To yield their tribute unto grateful men
In fruit or flower or shade, For who but Thou
And Thou alone, O God, amidst the gloom
Of never-ending night beneath the sod,
Can weave the network of those fragile roots,
And make their long antennae feel the way
To nooks of moisture and fertility?
And who but Thou can pilot up the stem
The warm sweet sap, like green blood making glad
The veinlets of the utmost little twig?
And who but Thou, O Lord, in mystic wise,
With alchemy divine, can from the earth,
This sordid earth, extract pure essences
To paint the cheeks of blossoms, scent their breath,
To swell the fruits with lusciousness, and make
The leafy boughs one mass of heavenly green,
Haunts for the song-birds, cool retreats for men?

Yea, all these powers are Thine, But on this day,
In lowly imitation of Thine own
Parental care, we plant these infant trees
To be a blessing in the far-off years
Unto our children and our children's children,
When we ourselves shall tread the earth no more.
Unselfish in Thy bounty, Thou hast strewn
Blessings around us, though partaking not
Thyself of that abundance which Thy hand
Alone created. In the by-gone years,
To please us Thou hast reared Thy goodly trees,
Glowing with fruitage, spreading green with shade,
Or clustered with delightsome odorous blooms.
Shall we Thy largess take with selfish ease,
And not in some small way, though feeble, seek
To emulate Thy goodness, and bequeath
Unto succeeding generations, gifts
We can never share outselves? O God of Love,
Make us unselfish in this task: our hearts
Uplift; and move our hands to speed with joy
In this, our labor, whereby we shall seek
To bless the lives of others yet to come,
When we ourselves have mingled with the dust
Wherein we plant these trees.

In days to be,
When we are long forgotten, may these boughs
Rustle with gladness in the winds of Spring:
Amongst them let the thrush at dusk and dawn,
And the sweet mock-bird on moon-silvered nights,
Warble their wildwood lays: here let the dove,
Soft-cooing, woo his mate, and wooing, win,
So that the two together here may brood
Over their nest of love. Upon these boughs,
From April unto April, June to June,
Hang the soft blossoms through the emerald glooms,
Wafting sweet odors, and with honey-dew
Burdening the murmuring bees. Here let the sheep
And cattle through the fervid blaze of noon,
Chewing the cud, dozing and drowsing, rest
Free from the torrid glare. Here hang Thy fruits,
Ruddy or tawny, apple, peach or pear,
To make the hearts of barefoot urchins glad
When school is over, and the lads go free,
Shouting and romping noisily: for they,
Oh Father, are Thy children, and we know
Their clamorous joyhood Thou wilt mark with smiles,
Pleased that these thoughtless ones are happy. Here
Let gentle lovers in the friendly shades,
With scattered petals at their feet, and songs
Of sweet encouragement from sprays above,
Wander in joy, and vow the dear old vows
Of love that we ourselves, in our lost youth
Of forgotten years of long ago,
Were thrilled with bliss to hear.

And in those days,
Dear Father, when our names from minds of men
Have all been canceled, and we lie alone,
Forsaken and forgotten, dust in dust,
Perchance Thine eyes may look upon these trees,
Still hale and green and sturdy, and Thy heart
Incline to pity and to mercy: so
For sake of these, from records of our souls
Thy hand may blot some past transgression. Then,
O Father, as Thou liftest up to heaven
The tree in verdure and in flower and fruit,
Uplift us likewise from our dungeon-cell
In the dark earth, and in the radiant skies
Let us rejoice to see Thy Light again.