Part 25 (1/2)
Trees to turn at the frosty call And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall;
Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, Trees for the cunning builder's trade;
Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, The keel and the mast of the daring sail;
He made them of every grain and girth, For the use of man in the Garden of Earth.
Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes From the gift to the Giver of Paradise,
On the crown of a hill, for all to see, G.o.d planted a scarlet maple tree.
BLISS CARMAN
THE TREES
There's something in a n.o.ble tree-- What shall I say? a soul?
For 'tis not form, or aught we see In leaf or branch or bole.
Some presence, though not understood, Dwells there alway, and seems To be acquainted with our mood, And mingles in our dreams.
I would not say that trees at all Were of our blood and race, Yet, lingering where their shadows fall, I sometimes think I trace A kins.h.i.+p, whose far-reaching root Grew when the world began, And made them best of all things mute To be the friends of man.
Held down by whatsoever might Unto an earthly sod, They stretch forth arms for air and light, As we do after G.o.d; And when in all their boughs the breeze Moans loud, or softly sings, As our own hearts in us, the trees Are almost human things.
What wonder in the days that burned With old poetic dream, Dead Phaethon's fair sisters turned To poplars by the stream!
In many a light cotillion stept The trees when fluters blew; And many a tear, 'tis said, they wept For human sorrow too.
Mute, said I? They are seldom thus; They whisper each to each, And each and all of them to us, In varied forms of speech.
”Be serious,” the solemn pine Is saying overhead; ”Be beautiful,” the elm-tree fine Has always finely said;
”Be quick to feel,” the aspen still Repeats the whole day long; While, from the green slope of the hill, The oak-tree adds, ”Be strong.”
When with my burden, as I hear Their distant voices call, I rise, and listen, and draw near, ”Be patient,” say they all.
SAMUEL VALENTINE COLE
THE POPLARS
My poplars are like ladies trim, Each conscious of her own estate; In costume somewhat over prim, In manner cordially sedate, Like two old neighbours met to chat Beside my garden gate.
My stately old aristocrats-- I fancy still their talk must be Of rose-conserves and Persian cats, And lavender and Indian tea;-- I wonder sometimes as I pa.s.s If they approve of me.
I give them greeting night and morn, I like to think they answer, too, With that benign a.s.surance born When youth gives age the reverence due, And bend their wise heads as I go As courteous ladies do.
Long may you stand before my door, Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green, And bend with rustling welcome o'er The many friends who pa.s.s between; And where the little children play Look down with gracious mien.
THEODOSIA GARRISON