A trunk of limestone strong and high, splits to stretching branches,  
   Those stones were set, so long ago but still will hold such weight.    
      Could they have known when those ancient hands,
Set this pillar firm and new?
That after centuries,
Still they'd stand,
Still strong and
Straight and true.
And even now,
Though old and
Worn, those gazes
Question: How?
Such wonder fills
Every eye which
Looks upon the
Polished bark,
Smoothed by
Mortal hands not
Nature's breath
That will never
Know such pain
As death or the
Feet or nest of
A crow or lark.
And who can
Say how many
Years, decades,
Centuries from
Now the last
Stone will decay?
When will that            
          Final rock
crumble              
               back to dust?
When it does,
will anyone              
know what           beauty
it once was?
And will those
                         hands that
placed the          
                                    first stone
finally                                
sleep and rest?