by Doritt Harvey Brough
I'm grieved when I look at those mulberry trees,
Limbs broken, some branches bare.
Because it is more than a hundred years
Since grandfather planted them there.
They were large, very large when I was a child
In their tops hung an Oriole nest.
And grandmother, then gray and aged
Paused in their shade for a rest.
From a branch hung a couple of swings
Where we children would float with the breeze
And eat a few purple berries
That dropped in our laps from the trees.
Gone is the old log home
Where they grew each side of the door.
Yes, sad to me, will be the day
When those trees are not there anymore.
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