Chapter VII: Part III: Poems of Nature (3)

I O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow and black, and pale, and hectic red, Pestilence stricken multitudes! O thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odors plain and hill;

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear!

II Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning! there are spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: O hear!

III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seemed a vision--I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee--tameless, and swift, and proud.

V Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own? The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, Like withered, leaves, to quicken a new birth; And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

AUTUMN: A DIRGE

The warm sun is failing; the bleak wind is wailing; The bare boughs are sighing; the pale flowers are dying; And the Year On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. Come, months, come away, From November to May; In your saddest array Follow the bier Of the dead, cold Year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling; the nipped worm is crawling; The rivers are swelling; the thunder is knelling For the Year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling; Come, months, come away; Put on white, black, and gray; Let your light sisters play-- Ye, follow the bier Of the dead, cold Year, And make her grave green with tear on tear.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

AUTUMN

The morns are meeker than they were, The nuts are getting brown; The berry's cheek is plumper, The rose is out of town. The maple wears a gayer scarf, The field a scarlet gown. Lest I should be old-fashioned, I'll put a trinket on.

Emily Dickinson [1830-1886]

"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN"

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-- Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!-- O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!... I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me-- I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

James Whitcomb Riley [1849-1916]

KORE

Yea, she hath passed hereby, and blessed the sheaves, And the great garths, and stacks, and quiet farms, And all the tawny, and the crimson leaves. Yea, she hath passed with poppies in her arms, Under the star of dusk, through stealing mist, And blessed the earth, and gone, while no man wist.

With slow, reluctant feet, and weary eyes, And eye-lids heavy with the coming sleep, With small breasts lifted up in stress of sighs, She passed, as shadows pass, among the sheep; While the earth dreamed, and only I was ware Of that faint fragrance blown from her soft hair.

The land lay steeped in peace of silent dreams; There was no sound amid the sacred boughs. Nor any mournful music in her streams: Only I saw the shadow on her brows, Only I knew her for the yearly slain, And wept, and weep until she come again.

Frederic Manning [18 --

OLD OCTOBER

Hail, old October, bright and chill, First freedman from the summer sun! Spice high the bowl, and drink your fill! Thank heaven, at last the summer's done!

Come, friend, my fire is burning bright, A fire's no longer out of place, How clear it glows! (there's frost to-night,) It looks white winter in the face.

You've been to "Richard" Ah! you've seen A noble play: I'm glad you went; But what on earth does Shakespeare mean By "winter of our discontent?"

Be mine the tree that feeds the fire! Be mine the sun knows when to set! Be mine the months when friends desire To turn in here from cold and wet!

The sentry sun, that glared so long O'erhead, deserts his summer post; Ay, you may brew it hot and strong: "The joys of winter"--come, a toast!

Shine on the kangaroo, thou sun! Make far New Zealand faint with fear! Don't hurry back to spoil our fun, Thank goodness, old October's here!

Thomas Constable [1812-1881]

NOVEMBER

When thistle-blows do lightly float About the pasture-height, And shrills the hawk a parting note, And creeps the frost at night, Then hilly ho! though singing so, And whistle as I may, There comes again the old heart pain Through all the livelong day.

In high wind creaks the leafless tree And nods the fading fern; The knolls are dun as snow-clouds be, And cold the sun does burn. Then ho, hollo! though calling so, I cannot keep it down; The tears arise unto my eyes, And thoughts are chill and brown.

Far in the cedars' dusky stoles, Where the sere ground-vine weaves, The partridge drums funereal rolls Above the fallen leaves. And hip, hip, ho! though cheering so, It stills no whit the pain; For drip, drip, drip, from bare-branch tip, I hear the year's last rain.

So drive the cold cows from the hill, And call the wet sheep in; And let their stamping clatter fill The barn with warming din. And ho, folk, ho! though it be so That we no more may roam, We still will find a cheerful mind Around the fire at home!

C. L. Cleaveland [18--? ]

NOVEMBER

Hark you such sound as quivers? Kings will hear, As kings have heard, and tremble on their thrones; The old will feel the weight of mossy stones; The young alone will laugh and scoff at fear. It is the tread of armies marching near, From scarlet lands to lands forever pale; It is a bugle dying down the gale; It is the sudden gushing of a tear. And it is hands that grope at ghostly doors; And romp of spirit-children on the pave; It is the tender sighing of the brave Who fell, ah! long ago, in futile wars; It is such sound as death; and, after all, 'Tis but the forest letting dead leaves fall.

Mahlon Leonard Fisher [1874-

STORM FEAR

When the wind works against us in the dark, And pelts with snow The lower chamber window on the east, And whispers with a sort of stifled bark, The beast, "Come out! Come out!"-- It costs no inward struggle not to go, Ah, no! I count our strength, Two and a child, Those of us not asleep subdued to mark How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,-- How drifts are piled, Dooryard and road ungraded, Till even the comforting barn grows far away And my heart owns a doubt Whether 'tis in us to arise with day And save ourselves unaided.

Robert Frost [1875-

WINTER: A DIRGE

The wintry west extends his blast, And hail and rain does blaw; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw: While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down, And roars frae bank to brae; And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," The joyless winter day. Let others fear,--to me more dear Than all the pride of May; The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, My griefs it seems to join; The leafless trees my fancy please, Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest,--they must be best, Because they are Thy will. Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]

OLD WINTER

Old Whiter sad, in snow yclad, Is making a doleful din; But let him howl till he crack his jowl, We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift His hoary, haggard form, And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand Outstretching to the storm.

And let his weird and sleety beard Stream loose upon the blast, And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death On herb and flower and tree; And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds Bind fast, but what care we?

Let him push at the door,--in the chimney roar, And rattle the window-pane; Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye, But he shall not entrance gain.

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth, On our roof-tiles, till he tire; But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit Before our blazing fire.

Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring; Come, push the can about;-- From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide We'll keep old Winter out.

Thomas Noel [1799-1861]

THE FROST

The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, And he said, "Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height In silence I'll take my way. I will not go like that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they!"

Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest, He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane like a fairy crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, By the light of the moon were seen Most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees, There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees, There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair,-- He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare,-- "Now, just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, And the glass of water they've left for me Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

Hannah Flagg Gould [1789-1865]

THE FROSTED PANE

One night came Winter noiselessly and leaned Against my window-pane. In the deep stillness of his heart convened The ghosts of all his slain.

Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth, And fugitives of grass,-- White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth, He drew them on the glass.

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-

THE FROST SPIRIT

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his
footsteps now
On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's
withered brow.
He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant
green came forth,
And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down
to earth.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! from the frozen Labrador, From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er, Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes,--he comes,--the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]

SNOW

Lo, what wonders the day hath brought, Born of the soft and slumbrous snow! Gradual, silent, slowly wrought; Even as an artist, thought by thought, Writes expression on lip and brow.

Hanging garlands the eaves o'erbrim, Deep drifts smother the paths below; The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, And all the air is dizzy and dim With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow.

Dimly out of the baffled sight Houses and church-spires stretch away; The trees, all spectral and still and white, Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, And fade and faint with the blinded day.

Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled The eddying drifts to the waste below; And still is the banner of storm unfurled, Till all the drowned and desolate world Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow.

Slowly the shadows gather and fall, Still the whispering snow-flakes beat; Night and darkness are over all: Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet!

Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe: On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,-- Land of my longing!--and underneath Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; Peace and I are at home, at home!

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]

TO A SNOW-FLAKE

What heart could have thought you?-- Past our devisal (O filigree petal!) Fashioned so purely, Fragilely, surely, From what Paradisal Imagineless metal, Too costly for cost? Who hammered you, wrought you, From argentine vapor?-- God was my shaper. Passing surmisal, He hammered, He wrought me, From curled silver vapor, To lust of His mind:-- Thou couldst not have thought me! So purely, so palely, Tinily, surely, Mightily, frailly, Insculped and embossed, With His hammer of wind, And His graver of frost."

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]

THE SNOW-SHOWER

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes; The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies; And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow; Flake after flake They sink in the dark and silent lake.

See how in a living swarm they come From the chambers beyond that misty veil; Some hover in air awhile, and some Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. All, dropping swiftly, or settling slow, Meet, and are still in the depths below; Flake after flake Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, Come floating downward in airy play, Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd That whiten by night the Milky Way; There broader and burlier masses fall; The sullen water buries them all,-- Flake after flake,-- All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

And some, as on tender wings they glide From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, Come clinging along their unsteady way; As friend with friend, or husband with wife, Makes hand in hand the passage of life; Each mated flake Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; Flake after flake To lie in the dark and silent lake.

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, Who were for a time, and now are not; Like these fair children of cloud and frost, That glisten a moment and then are lost,-- Flake after flake,-- All lost in the dark and silent lake.

Yet look again, for the clouds divide; A gleam of blue on the water lies; And far away, on the mountain-side, A sunbeam falls from the opening skies; But the hurrying host that flew between The cloud and the water no more is seen; Flake after flake, At rest in the dark and silent lake.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

MIDWINTER

The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery veil; And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; The snow sails round him as he sings, White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall On bank and brier and broken wall; Over the orchard, waste and brown, All noiselessly they settle down, Tipping the apple-boughs, and each Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; It paves with pearl the garden-walk; And lovingly round tattered stalk And shivering stem its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive, small and low, Stands like a maiden in the snow; And the old door-slab is half hid Under an alabaster lid. All day it snows: the sheeted post Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; All day the blasted oak has stood A muffled wizard of the wood; Garland and airy cap adorn The sumach and the wayside thorn, And clustering spangles lodge and shine In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; In surplice white the cedar stands, And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree: But in my inmost ear is heard The music of a holier bird; And heavenly thoughts, as soft and white As snow-flakes, on my soul alight, Clothing with love my lonely heart, Healing with peace each bruised part, Till all my being seems to be Transfigured by their purity.

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]

A GLEE FOR WINTER

Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow, Never merry, never mellow! Well-a-day! in rain and snow What will keep one's heart aglow? Groups of kinsmen, old and young, Oldest they old friends among; Groups of friends, so old and true That they seem our kinsmen too; These all merry all together Charm away chill Winter weather.

What will kill this dull old fellow? Ale that's bright, and wine that's mellow! Dear old songs for ever new; Some true love, and laughter too; Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, And a dance when day is done. Music, friends so true and tried, Whispered love by warm fireside, Mirth at all times all together, Make sweet May of Winter weather.

Alfred Domett [1811-1887]

THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still, he doth not move; He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above, He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.

He frothed his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps; the light burns low; 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes; tie up his chin; Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR

"Orphan Hours, the Year is dead: Come and sigh, come and weep." "Merry Hours, smile instead, For the Year is but asleep. See, it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping."

"As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, So white Winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the death-cold Year to-day; Solemn Hours! wail aloud For your mother in her shroud."

"As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days Rocks the Year:--be calm and mild, Trembling Hours; she will arise With new love within her eyes.

"January gray is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier; March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps--but, O, ye Hours, Follow with May's fairest flowers."

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]

WOOD AND FIELD AND RUNNING BROOK

WALDEINSAMKEIT

I do not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea; The forest is my loyal friend, Like God it useth me.

In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie, Bound in by streams which give and take Their colors from the sky;

Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, O what have I to do with time? For this the day was made.

Cities of mortals woe-begone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides.

Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad, But, sober on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad.

There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain.

Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns; Through times that wear and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns.

The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines.

Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, The sires of Nature, hide.

Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong!

See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books; Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks.

Oblivion here thy wisdom is, Thy thrift, the sleep of cares; For a proud idleness like this Crowns all thy mean affairs.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

"WHEN IN THE WOODS I WANDER ALL ALONE"

When in the woods I wander all alone, The woods that are my solace and delight, Which I more covet than a prince's throne, My toil by day and canopy by night; (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, These lights shall light us to old age's gate, While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright, Heavy with fear, death's fearful summons wait;) Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone, Weighing in thought the worlds no-happiness, I cannot choose but wonder at its moan, Since so plain joys the woody life can bless: Then live who may where honied words prevail, I with the deer, and with the nightingale!

Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829]

OUT IN THE FIELDS

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play, Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might pass I cast them all away Among tile clover-scented grass, Among the new-mown hay, Among the hushing of the corn, Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born-- Out in the fields of God.

Unknown [Has been erroneously attributed to Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Louise Imogen Guiney]

ASPECTS OF THE PINES

Tall, somber, grim, against the morning sky They rise, scarce touched by melancholy airs, Which stir the fadeless foliage dreamfully, As if from realms of mystical despairs.

Tall, somber, grim, they stand with dusky gleams Brightening to gold within the woodland's core, Beneath the gracious noontide's tranquil beams,-- But the weird winds of morning sigh no more.

A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable, Broods round and o'er them in the wind's surcease, And on each tinted copse and shimmering dell Rests the mute rapture of deep hearted peace.

Last, sunset comes--the solemn joy and might Borne from the West when cloudless day declines-- Low, flute-like breezes sweep the waves of light, And, lifting dark green tresses of the pines,

Till every lock is luminous, gently float, Fraught with hale odors up the heavens afar, To faint when twilight on her virginal throat Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper star.

Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830-1886]

UNDER THE LEAVES

Oft have I walked these woodland paths, Without the blessed foreknowing That underneath the withered leaves The fairest buds were growing.

To-day the south-wind sweeps away The types of autumn's splendor, And shows the sweet arbutus flowers,-- Spring's children, pure and tender.

O prophet-flowers!--with lips of bloom, Outvying in your beauty The pearly tints of ocean shells,-- Ye teach me faith and duty!

Walk life's dark ways, ye seem to say, With love's divine foreknowing That where man sees but withered leaves, God sees sweet flowers growing.

Albert Laighton [1829-1887]

"ON WENLOCK EDGE"

On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves.

'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood: 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood.

Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare: The blood that warms an English yeoman, The thoughts that hurt him, they were there.

There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

The gale, it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: To-day the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon.

Alfred Edward Housman [1859-1936]

"WHAT DO WE PLANT?"

What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the ship, which will cross the sea. We plant the mast to carry the sails; We plant the planks to withstand the gales-- The keel, the keelson, the beam, the knee; We plant the ship when we plant the tree.

What do we plant when we plant the tree? We plant the houses for you and me. We plant the rafters, the shingles, the floors, We plant the studding, the lath, the doors, The beams and siding, all parts that be; We plant the house when we plant the tree.

What do we plant when we plant the tree? A thousand things that we daily see; We plant the spire that out-towers the crag, We plant the staff for our country's flag, We plant the shade, from the hot sun free; We plant all these when we plant the tree.

Henry Abbey [1842-1911]

THE TREE

I love thee when thy swelling buds appear, And one by one their tender leaves unfold, As if they knew that warmer suns were near, Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold; And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen To veil from view the early robin's nest, I love to lie beneath thy waving screen, With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppressed; And when the autumn winds have stripped thee bare, And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow, When naught is thine that made thee once so fair, I love to watch thy shadowy form below, And through thy leafless arms to look above On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.

Jones Very [1813-1880]

THE BRAVE OLD OAK

A song to the oak, the brave old oak, Who hath ruled in the greenwood long; Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong. There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out; And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, When the storms through his branches shout.

Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, Who stands in his pride alone; And still flourish he, a hale green tree, When a hundred years are gone! In the days of old, when the spring with cold Had, brightened his branches gray, Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet, To gather the dew of May. And on that day to the rebeck gay They frolicked with lovesome swains; They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree it still remains.

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes Were a merry sound to hear, When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small Were filled with good English cheer. Now gold hath sway we all obey, And a ruthless king is he; But he never shall send our ancient friend To be tossed on the stormy sea.

Henry Fothergill Chorley [1808-1872]

"THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL"

The girt woak tree that's in the dell! There's noo tree I do love so well; Vor times an' times when I wer young, I there've a-climbed, an' there've a-zwung, An' picked the eacorns green, a-shed In wrestlen storms vrom his broad head. An' down below's the cloty brook Where I did vish with line an' hook, An' beat, in playsome dips and zwims, The foamy stream, wi' white-skinned lim's. An' there my mother nimbly shot Her knitten-needles, as she zot At evenen down below the wide Woak's head, wi' father at her zide. An' I've a-played wi' many a bwoy, That's now a man an' gone awoy; Zoo I do like noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

An' there, in leater years, I roved Wi' thik poor maid I fondly loved,-- The maid too feair to die so soon,-- When evenen twilight, or the moon, Cast light enough 'ithin the pleace To show the smiles upon her feace, Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool, An' lips an' cheaks so soft as wool. There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, Wi' love that burned but thought noo harm, Below the wide-boughed tree we passed The happy hours that went too vast; An' though she'll never be my wife, She's still my leaden star o' life. She's gone: an' she've a-left to me Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree; Zoo I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

An' oh! mid never ax nor hook Be brought to spweil his steately look; Nor ever roun' his ribby zides Mid cattle rub ther heairy hides; Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep His lwonesome sheade vor harmless sheep; An' let en grow, an' let en spread, An' let en live when I be dead. But oh! if men should come an' vell The girt woak tree that's in the dell, An' build his planks 'ithin the zide O' zome girt ship to plough the tide, Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea, A sailen wi' the girt woak tree: An' I upon his planks would stand, An' die a-fighten vor the land,-- The land so dear,--the land so free,-- The land that bore the girt woak tree; Vor I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

William Barnes [1801-1886]

TO THE WILLOW-TREE

Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distressed, And left of love, are crowned.

When once the lover's rose is dead, Or laid aside forlorn: Then willow-garlands 'bout the head Bedewed with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lovers' bane, Poor maids rewarded be For their love lost, their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth and love-sick maid Come to weep out the night.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]

ENCHANTMENT

The deep seclusion of this forest path,-- O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy; Along which bluet and anemone Spread dim a carpet; where the Twilight hath Her cool abode; and, sweet as aftermath, Wood-fragrance roams,--has so enchanted me, That yonder blossoming bramble seems to be A Sylvan resting, rosy from her bath: Has so enspelled me with tradition's dreams, That every foam-white stream that, twinkling, flows, And every bird that flutters wings of tan, Or warbles hidden, to my fancy seems A Naiad dancing to a Faun who blows Wild woodland music on the pipes of Pan.

Madison Cawein [1865-1914]

TREES

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

Joyce Kilmer [1886-1918]

THE HOLLY-TREE

O reader! hast thou ever stood to see The Holly-tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an Intelligence so wise As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen, Wrinkled and keen; No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, Can reach to wound; But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes, And moralize; And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree Can emblem see Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,-- One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear Harsh and austere; To those who on my leisure would intrude, Reserved and rude; Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And should my youth--as youth is apt, I know,-- Some harshness show, All vain asperities I, day by day, Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The Holly-leaves their fadeless hues display Less bright than they; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree?--

So, serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng; So would I seem, amid the young and gay, More grave than they; That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly-tree.

Robert Southey [1774-1843]

THE PINE

The elm lets fall its leaves before the frost, The very oak grows shivering and sere, The trees are barren when the summer's lost: But one tree keeps its goodness all the year.

Green pine, unchanging as the days go by, Thou art thyself beneath whatever sky: My shelter from all winds, my own strong pine, 'Tis spring, 'tis summer, still, while thou art mine.

Augusta Webster [1837-1894]

"WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE"

Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,-- And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand-- Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not.

George Pope Morris [1802-1864]

THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION

O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made, And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that Love has whispered here, Or Beauty heard with ravished ear; As Love's own altar honor me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]

THE POPLAR FIELD

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade; And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charmed me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he.

William Cowper [1731-1800]

THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE

Come, let us plant the apple-tree. Cleave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infant's feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet; So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast, Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest; We plant, upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May-winds restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl's silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when, above this apple-tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth, And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood's careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh, In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple-tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this little apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?" The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: "A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times; 'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, On planting the apple-tree."

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]

OF AN ORCHARD

Good is an Orchard, the Saint saith, To meditate on life and death, With a cool well, a hive of bees, A hermit's grot below the trees.

Good is an Orchard: very good, Though one should wear no monkish hood. Right good, when Spring awakes her flute, And good in yellowing time of fruit.

Very good in the grass to lie And see the network 'gainst the sky, A living lace of blue and green, And boughs that let the gold between.

The bees are types of souls that dwell With honey in a quiet cell; The ripe fruit figures goldenly The soul's perfection in God's eye.

Prayer and praise in a country home, Honey and fruit: a man might come, Fed on such meats, to walk abroad, And in his Orchard talk with God.

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]

AN ORCHARD AT AVIGNON

The hills are white, but not with snow: They are as pale in summer time, For herb or grass may never grow Upon their slopes of lime.

Within the circle of the hills A ring, all flowering in a round, An orchard-ring of almond fills The plot of stony ground.

More fair than happier trees, I think, Grown in well-watered pasture land These parched and stunted branches, pink Above the stones and sand.

O white, austere, ideal place, Where very few will care to come, Where spring hath lost the waving grace She wears for us at home!

Fain would I sit and watch for hours The holy whiteness of thy hills, Their wreath of pale auroral flowers, Their peace the silence fills.

A place of secret peace thou art, Such peace as in an hour of pain One moment fills the amazed heart, And never comes again.

A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-

THE TIDE RIVER From "The Water Babies"

Clear and cool, clear and cool, By laughing shallow and dreaming pool; Cool and clear, cool and clear, By shining shingle and foaming weir; Under the crag where the ouzel sings, And the ivied wall where the church-bell rings, Undefiled, for the undefiled; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Dank and foul, dank and foul, By the smoky town in its murky cowl; Foul and dank, foul and dank, By wharf and sewer and slimy bank; Darker and darker the farther I go, Baser and baser the richer I grow; Who dare sport with the sin-defiled? Shrink from me, turn from me, mother and child.

Strong and free, strong and free, The flood-gates are open, away to the sea. Free and strong, free and strong, Cleansing my streams as I hurry along, To the golden sands, and the leaping bar, And the taintless tide that awaits me afar. As I lose myself in the infinite main, Like a soul that has sinned and is pardoned again, Undefiled, for the undefiled; Play by me, bathe in me, mother and child.

Charles Kingsley [1819-1875]

THE BROOK'S SONG From "The Brook"

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery water-break Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

ARETHUSA

Arethusa arose From her couch of snows In the Acroceraunian mountains,-- From cloud and from crag, With many a jag, Shepherding her bright fountains. She leapt down the rocks With her rainbow locks Streaming among the streams; Her steps paved with green The downward ravine Which slopes to the western gleams: And gliding and springing, She went, ever singing, In murmurs as soft as sleep; The Earth seemed to love her, And Heaven smiled above her, As she lingered towards the deep.

Then Alpheus bold, On his glacier cold, With his trident the mountains strook, And opened a chasm In the rocks;--with the spasm All Erymanthus shook. And the black south wind It unsealed behind The urns of the silent snow, And earthquake and thunder Did rend in sunder The bars of the springs below: And the beard and the hair Of the River-god were Seen through the torrent's sweep, As he followed the light Of the fleet nymph's flight To the brink of the Dorian deep.

"Oh, save me! Oh, guide me! And bid the deep hide me! For he grasps me now by the hair!" The loud Ocean heard, To its blue depth stirred, And divided at her prayer; And under the water The Earth's white daughter Fled like a sunny beam; Behind her descended, Her billows, unblended With the brackish Dorian stream. Like a gloomy stain On the emerald main, Alpheus rushed behind,-- As an eagle pursuing A dove to its ruin Down the streams of the cloudy wind.