Still the tall Lombardies stand
Tempering the hurricane,
Guarding fields lest once again
Wind roam master on the plain.
Pioneers, a twig in hand,
Planted dreams: Now monarchs shield--
Climbing sky--the well-tilled field.
Only time can bid them yield.
Rooted deep, they rim the land--
Two have fallen in their row.
Dreamers' children see them low,
Mourn because the past must go.
