Volume Iii Part 23 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+mmering 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 sh.e.l.ls,-- 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, G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+p, which will cross the sea.