The Home Book of Verse Volume Iii Part 23

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 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 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 gra.s.s 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.