There’s a sycamore on Main Street
Just as stately as can be,
And it rises from an island
In a spreading black-topped sea.
When I pass it by I wonder,
“Will this old tree live or not
When it’s thirsty roots are smothered
By this downtown parking lot?”
It can’t speak aloud, but whispers
Like it wants me for a friend
To seek help that we might save it
From a cruel, untimely end.
All I need to set me dreaming
Of the good old days of yore
Is to gaze up through the branches
Of this stately sycamore.
Oh! the moonglow through its broad leaves
Sort of warms me up inside;
It may be the love of nature,
Or a touch of Hoosier pride.
It has stood refreshed in rainbow light
That follows the Summer rains.
Its leaves have waved at the moon and stars,
And a million passing trains.
So proudly it stands on cold winter nights
In its snowy-white garments dressed,
And lulled by songs of summer winds
It has cradled a robin’s nest.
It has seen the many changes
That comes with the passing of years,
It has watched the progress of our town
Since the days of the pioneers.
Great men may roam through a forest
And see everything but a tree,
But sycamores were meant to be
Loved by… little men … like me.