The tree that never had to fight,
for sun and sky and air and light,
but stood out on the open plain,
and always got it’s share of rain,
never became a forest king,
but lives and dies a scrawny thing.
The man who never had to toil,
to gain and farm his patch of soil,
who never had to win his share,
of sun and sky and light and air,
never became a manly man,
but lived and died as he began.
Good timber does not grow in ease,
the stronger the wind, the stronger trees.
The farther sky, the greater the length.
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
in tree and men good timbers grow.
Where thickest lies the forest growth
we find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
whose broken branches show the scars.
This is the common law of life.