Among the Trees (Debussy)

[Intro] Under the hill where the rootlines run, where the black earth keeps what the years have done, there is a hush before the light can speak, and the tall ones listen through branch and creek. [A1] On the shoulder of the morning field, the ash stood pale, the pine stood sealed, the willow bent to the river’s plea, and the oak held court by the boundary tree. They lived by wind and by weathered ring, by what each season would take or bring, yet high in the crown where the sun pooled gold, old judgments gathered and old tales rolled. [B] Then the firs beat hard in the iron rain, and the trunks rang low like a vow in chain, for down in the shade where the cold roots pressed, the smaller grove gave the soil no rest. “We lean,” they said, “but we still belong. Must height make right? Must breadth make strong? Does sunlight fall by a noble decree, or break where it will through the common tree?” [A2] And the wind came over the ridge like grace, laying one wide hand on every face, through cedar tongue and through poplar seam, through birch-white bark and the alder’s dream. The oak said nothing, the willow sighed, the elm looked off where the red leaves dried, and somewhere deep where the rootlines crossed, each tree felt count of the light it lost. [C] By noon the finches were stitching air, and the leaves flashed green with a restless flare, the young shoots danced where the creek ran bright, making a feast of the broken light. For every limb that had learned to wait, there pulsed a wish to unfasten fate, to rise not higher from greed or pride, but simply reach with the day as guide. [A3] So the grove remembered what forests know: no trunk stands alone where the deep roots grow. The hill keeps all of the rain it bears, and the earth makes room for a thousand prayers. The pine cast less of its shadow wide, the oak let gold through its armored side, and the willow turned where the stream ran clear, as if it had heard what the dark roots hear. [D] Then storm broke open the western sky, and the crowns all thrashed in a single cry, the branches writhed and the great bark groaned, and none stood king when the gale intoned. The ash bent low, and the cedar reeled, the proud trunk shuddered, the hard heart kneeled, and there in the roar of the driving night each tree was measured by more than height. Not who took most of the noon-day flame, not who rose first with the oldest name, but who held fast when the black winds roared, and who made shelter, and who restored. [A4] Morning came soft through the rinsed-out blue, and the grove stood changed in the silver dew, the oak no less oak, the pine still tall, but the light fell wide now across them all. And down the slope where the young roots curled, new leaves were opening into the world, not asking more than the sky could spare, just room to rise and their honest share. So when the south wind moves that way, you can hear the living branches say: the forest keeps what the proud forget— we rise together, or not at all yet. [Coda] Under the hill where the rootlines run, the tall and the small still answer one sun. And the earth below, without sound or show, binds every name to the roots below.