The visible tree is the one we see,
Here rotten, there broken,
And all racked by age.
The few live limbs poke through,
Poke through tattered tent flaps,
Here and there - - - - .
The deep fertile soil sustains,
Sustains the strong the tree roots
That are now silent,
Waiting for Spring to come.
This Winter is the time for pruning,
Pruning with great care,
To dig out all the rotten wood,
And cut off dead limbs
Long past use.
Who will come to prune and save,
This Grand Old Republican Tree?
The dying tree cannot prune itself,
Thus, it is up to you and me.