Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,From the snow five thousand summers old;On open wold and hill-top bleakIt had gathered all the cold,And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;It carried a shiver everywhereFrom the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;The little brook heard it and built a roof'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;All night by the white stars' frosty gleamsHe groined his arches and matched his beams;Slender and clear were his crystal sparsAs the lashes of light that trim the stars;He sculptured every summer delightIn his halls and chambers out of sight;Sometimes his tinkling waters sliptDown through a frost-leaved forest crypt,Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed treesBending to counterfeit a breeze;Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew;But silvery mosses that downward grew;Sometimes it was carved in sharp reliefWith quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;Sometimes it was simply smooth and clearFor the gladness of heaven to shine through, and hereHe had caught the nodding bulrush-topsAnd hung them thickly with diamond drops,That crystalled the beams of moon and sun,And made a star of every one:No mortal builder's most rare deviceCould match this winter-palace of ice;'Twas as if every image that mirrored layIn his depths serene through the summer day,Each flitting shadow of earth and sky,Lest the happy model should be lost,Had been mimicked in fairy masonryBy the elfin builders of the frost.James Russell Lowell.From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."
Down swept the chill wind from the mountain peak,From the snow five thousand summers old;On open wold and hill-top bleakIt had gathered all the cold,And whirled it like sleet on the wanderer's cheek;It carried a shiver everywhereFrom the unleafed boughs and pastures bare;The little brook heard it and built a roof'Neath which he could house him, winter-proof;All night by the white stars' frosty gleamsHe groined his arches and matched his beams;Slender and clear were his crystal sparsAs the lashes of light that trim the stars;He sculptured every summer delightIn his halls and chambers out of sight;Sometimes his tinkling waters sliptDown through a frost-leaved forest crypt,Long, sparkling aisles of steel-stemmed treesBending to counterfeit a breeze;Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew;But silvery mosses that downward grew;Sometimes it was carved in sharp reliefWith quaint arabesques of ice-fern leaf;Sometimes it was simply smooth and clearFor the gladness of heaven to shine through, and hereHe had caught the nodding bulrush-topsAnd hung them thickly with diamond drops,That crystalled the beams of moon and sun,And made a star of every one:No mortal builder's most rare deviceCould match this winter-palace of ice;'Twas as if every image that mirrored layIn his depths serene through the summer day,Each flitting shadow of earth and sky,Lest the happy model should be lost,Had been mimicked in fairy masonryBy the elfin builders of the frost.
James Russell Lowell.
From "The Vision of Sir Launfal."
Clear and cool, clear and cool,By laughing shallow, and dreaming pool;Cool and clear, cool and clear,By shining shingle, and foaming wear;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 floodgates 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.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 wear;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 floodgates 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.
From "The Water-Babies."
How silent comes the water round that bend;Not the minutest whisper does it sendTo the overhanging sallows; blades of grassSlowly across the chequer'd shadows pass,—Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reachTo where the hurrying freshnesses aye preachA natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,To taste the luxury of sunny beamsTempered with coolness. How they ever wrestleWith their own sweet delight, and ever nestleTheir silver bellies on the pebbly sand.If you but scantily hold out the hand,That very instant not one will remain;But turn your eye, and they are there again.The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses;The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,And moisture, that the bowery green may live.John Keats.
How silent comes the water round that bend;Not the minutest whisper does it sendTo the overhanging sallows; blades of grassSlowly across the chequer'd shadows pass,—Why, you might read two sonnets, ere they reachTo where the hurrying freshnesses aye preachA natural sermon o'er their pebbly beds;Where swarms of minnows show their little heads,Staying their wavy bodies 'gainst the streams,To taste the luxury of sunny beamsTempered with coolness. How they ever wrestleWith their own sweet delight, and ever nestleTheir silver bellies on the pebbly sand.If you but scantily hold out the hand,That very instant not one will remain;But turn your eye, and they are there again.The ripples seem right glad to reach those cresses,And cool themselves among the em'rald tresses;The while they cool themselves, they freshness give,And moisture, that the bowery green may live.
John Keats.
The sun that brief December dayRose cheerless over hills of gray,And, darkly circled, gave at noonA sadder light than waning moon.Slow tracing down the thickening skyIts mute and ominous prophecy,A portent seeming less than threat,It sank from sight before it set.A chill no coat, however stout,Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,A hard dull bitterness of cold,That checked, mid-vein, the circling raceOf life-blood in the sharpened face,The coming of the snow-storm told.The wind blew east: we heard the roarOf ocean on his wintry shore,And felt the strong pulse throbbing thereBeat with low rhythm our inland air.* * * *Unwarmed by any sunset lightThe gray day darkened into night,A night made hoary with the swarmAnd whirl-dance of the blinding storm,As zig-zag wavering to and froCrossed and recrossed the wingéd snow:And ere the early bedtime cameThe white drift piled the window-frame,And through the glass the clothes-line postsLooked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.* * * *The old familiar sights of oursTook marvellous shapes; strange domes and towersRose up where sty or corn-crib stood,Or garden wall, or belt of wood;A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,A fenceless drift what once was road;The bridle-post an old man satWith loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;The well-curb had a Chinese roof;And even the long sweep, high aloof,In its slant splendor, seemed to tellOf Pisa's leaning miracle.* * * *All day the gusty north wind boreThe loosening drift its breath before;Low circling round its southern zone,The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.No church-bell lent its Christian toneTo the savage air, no social smokeCurled over woods of snow-hung oak.A solitude made more intenseBy dreary-voicéd elements,The shrieking of the mindless wind,The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,And on the glass the unmeaning beatOf ghostly finger-tips of sleet.Beyond the circle of our hearthNo welcome sound of toil or mirthUnbound the spell, and testifiedOf human life and thought outside.We minded that the sharpest earThe buried brooklet could not hear,The music of whose liquid lipHad been to us companionship,And in our lonely life, had grownTo have an almost human tone.As night drew on, and, from the crestOf wooded knolls that ridged the west,The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sankFrom sight beneath the smothering bank,We piled with care, our nightly stackOf wood against the chimney-back,—The oaken log, green, huge and thick,And on its top the stout back-stick;The knotty fore-stick laid apart,And filled between with curious artThe ragged brush; then hovering near,We watched the first red blaze appear,Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleamOn whitewashed wall and sagging beam,Until the old rude-fashioned roomBurst flower-like into rosy bloom;While radiant with a mimic flameOutside the sparkling drift became,And through the bare-boughed lilac treeOur own warm hearth seemed blazing free.The crane and pendent trammels showed,The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed;While childish fancy, prompt to tellThe meaning of the miracle,Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree,When fire outdoors burns merrily,There the witches are making tea."* * * *Shut in from all the world without,We sat the clean-winged hearth about,Content to let the north wind roarIn baffled rage at pane and door,While the red logs before us beatThe frost-line back with tropic heat;And ever, when a louder blastShook beam and rafter as it passed,The merrier up its roaring draughtThe great throat of the chimney laughed,The house-dog on his paws outspreadLaid to the fire his drowsy head,The cat's dark silhouette on the wallA couchant tiger's seemed to fall;And, for the winter fireside meet,Between the andirons' straddling feet,The mug of cider simmered slow,The apples sputtered in a row,And close at hand the basket stoodWith nuts from brown October's wood.* * * *John Greenleaf Whittier.
The sun that brief December dayRose cheerless over hills of gray,And, darkly circled, gave at noonA sadder light than waning moon.Slow tracing down the thickening skyIts mute and ominous prophecy,A portent seeming less than threat,It sank from sight before it set.A chill no coat, however stout,Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,A hard dull bitterness of cold,That checked, mid-vein, the circling raceOf life-blood in the sharpened face,The coming of the snow-storm told.The wind blew east: we heard the roarOf ocean on his wintry shore,And felt the strong pulse throbbing thereBeat with low rhythm our inland air.
* * * *
Unwarmed by any sunset lightThe gray day darkened into night,A night made hoary with the swarmAnd whirl-dance of the blinding storm,As zig-zag wavering to and froCrossed and recrossed the wingéd snow:And ere the early bedtime cameThe white drift piled the window-frame,And through the glass the clothes-line postsLooked in like tall and sheeted ghosts.
* * * *
The old familiar sights of oursTook marvellous shapes; strange domes and towersRose up where sty or corn-crib stood,Or garden wall, or belt of wood;A smooth white mound the brush-pile showed,A fenceless drift what once was road;The bridle-post an old man satWith loose-flung coat and high cocked hat;The well-curb had a Chinese roof;And even the long sweep, high aloof,In its slant splendor, seemed to tellOf Pisa's leaning miracle.
* * * *
All day the gusty north wind boreThe loosening drift its breath before;Low circling round its southern zone,The sun through dazzling snow-mist shone.No church-bell lent its Christian toneTo the savage air, no social smokeCurled over woods of snow-hung oak.A solitude made more intenseBy dreary-voicéd elements,The shrieking of the mindless wind,The moaning tree-boughs swaying blind,And on the glass the unmeaning beatOf ghostly finger-tips of sleet.Beyond the circle of our hearthNo welcome sound of toil or mirthUnbound the spell, and testifiedOf human life and thought outside.We minded that the sharpest earThe buried brooklet could not hear,The music of whose liquid lipHad been to us companionship,And in our lonely life, had grownTo have an almost human tone.As night drew on, and, from the crestOf wooded knolls that ridged the west,The sun, a snow-blown traveller, sankFrom sight beneath the smothering bank,We piled with care, our nightly stackOf wood against the chimney-back,—The oaken log, green, huge and thick,And on its top the stout back-stick;The knotty fore-stick laid apart,And filled between with curious artThe ragged brush; then hovering near,We watched the first red blaze appear,Heard the sharp crackle, caught the gleamOn whitewashed wall and sagging beam,Until the old rude-fashioned roomBurst flower-like into rosy bloom;While radiant with a mimic flameOutside the sparkling drift became,And through the bare-boughed lilac treeOur own warm hearth seemed blazing free.The crane and pendent trammels showed,The Turks' heads on the andirons glowed;While childish fancy, prompt to tellThe meaning of the miracle,Whispered the old rhyme: "Under the tree,When fire outdoors burns merrily,There the witches are making tea."
* * * *
Shut in from all the world without,We sat the clean-winged hearth about,Content to let the north wind roarIn baffled rage at pane and door,While the red logs before us beatThe frost-line back with tropic heat;And ever, when a louder blastShook beam and rafter as it passed,The merrier up its roaring draughtThe great throat of the chimney laughed,The house-dog on his paws outspreadLaid to the fire his drowsy head,The cat's dark silhouette on the wallA couchant tiger's seemed to fall;And, for the winter fireside meet,Between the andirons' straddling feet,The mug of cider simmered slow,The apples sputtered in a row,And close at hand the basket stoodWith nuts from brown October's wood.
* * * *
John Greenleaf Whittier.
Down the wintry mountainLike a cloud they come,Not like a cloud in its silent shroudWhen the sky is leaden and the earth all dumb,But tramp, tramp, tramp,With a roar and a shock,And stamp, stamp, stamp,Down the hard granite rock,With the snow-flakes falling fairLike an army in the airOf white-winged angels leavingTheir heavenly homes, half grieving,And half glad to drop down kindly upon earth so bare:With a snort and a bellowTossing manes dun and yellow,Red and roan, black and gray,In their fierce merry play,Though the sky is all leaden and the earth all dumb—Down the noisy cattle come!Throned on the mountainWinter sits at ease:Hidden under mist are those peaks of amethystThat rose like hills of heaven above the amber seas.While crash, crash, crash,Through the frozen heather brown,And dash, dash, dash,Where the ptarmigan drops downAnd the curlew stops her cryAnd the deer sinks, like to die—And the waterfall's loud noiseIs the only living voice—With a plunge and a roarLike mad waves upon the shore,Or the wind through the passHowling o'er the reedy grass—In a wild battalion pouring from the heights unto the plain,Down the cattle come again!* * * *Dinah Maria Mulock.
Down the wintry mountainLike a cloud they come,Not like a cloud in its silent shroudWhen the sky is leaden and the earth all dumb,But tramp, tramp, tramp,With a roar and a shock,And stamp, stamp, stamp,Down the hard granite rock,With the snow-flakes falling fairLike an army in the airOf white-winged angels leavingTheir heavenly homes, half grieving,And half glad to drop down kindly upon earth so bare:With a snort and a bellowTossing manes dun and yellow,Red and roan, black and gray,In their fierce merry play,Though the sky is all leaden and the earth all dumb—Down the noisy cattle come!
Throned on the mountainWinter sits at ease:Hidden under mist are those peaks of amethystThat rose like hills of heaven above the amber seas.While crash, crash, crash,Through the frozen heather brown,And dash, dash, dash,Where the ptarmigan drops downAnd the curlew stops her cryAnd the deer sinks, like to die—And the waterfall's loud noiseIs the only living voice—With a plunge and a roarLike mad waves upon the shore,Or the wind through the passHowling o'er the reedy grass—In a wild battalion pouring from the heights unto the plain,Down the cattle come again!
* * * *
Dinah Maria Mulock.
Adam the goodliest man of men since bornHis sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve.Under a tuft of shade that on a greenStood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain-side,They sat them down;...... About them frisking playedAll beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chaseIn wood or wilderness, forest or den.Sporting the lion ramped, and in his pawDandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,Gamboled before them; the unwieldy elephant,To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathedHis lithe proboscis; close the serpent sly,Insinuating, wove with Gordian twineHis braided train, and of his fatal guileGave proof unheeded. Others on the grassCouched, and, now filled with pasture, gazing sat,Or bedward ruminating; for the sun,Declined, was hastening now with prone careerTo the Ocean Isles, and in the ascending scaleOf Heaven the stars that usher evening rose.John Milton.From "Paradise Lost."
Adam the goodliest man of men since bornHis sons; the fairest of her daughters Eve.Under a tuft of shade that on a greenStood whispering soft, by a fresh fountain-side,They sat them down;...... About them frisking playedAll beasts of the earth, since wild, and of all chaseIn wood or wilderness, forest or den.Sporting the lion ramped, and in his pawDandled the kid; bears, tigers, ounces, pards,Gamboled before them; the unwieldy elephant,To make them mirth, used all his might, and wreathedHis lithe proboscis; close the serpent sly,Insinuating, wove with Gordian twineHis braided train, and of his fatal guileGave proof unheeded. Others on the grassCouched, and, now filled with pasture, gazing sat,Or bedward ruminating; for the sun,Declined, was hastening now with prone careerTo the Ocean Isles, and in the ascending scaleOf Heaven the stars that usher evening rose.
John Milton.
From "Paradise Lost."
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night!What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the ardor of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire—What the hand dare seize the fire?And what shoulder, and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?What the hammer, what the chain,In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? What dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did he smile his work to see?Did he who made the lamb make thee?Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?William Blake.
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night!What immortal hand or eyeCould frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skiesBurnt the ardor of thine eyes?On what wings dare he aspire—What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, and what artCould twist the sinews of thy heart?And when thy heart began to beat,What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?
What the hammer, what the chain,In what furnace was thy brain?What the anvil? What dread graspDare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,And watered heaven with their tears,Did he smile his work to see?Did he who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning brightIn the forests of the night,What immortal hand or eyeDare frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake.
The spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,And spangled heavens, a shining frame.Their great Original proclaim.The unwearied sun from day to dayDoes his Creator's power display,And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.Soon as the evening shades prevail,The moon takes up the wondrous tale,And nightly to the listening earthRepeats the story of her birth;Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.What though in solemn silence, allMove round this dark, terrestrial ball?What though nor real voice nor soundAmidst their radiant orbs be found?In Reason's ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice,Forever singing as they shine:"The hand that made us is divine!"Joseph Addison.
The spacious firmament on high,With all the blue ethereal sky,And spangled heavens, a shining frame.Their great Original proclaim.The unwearied sun from day to dayDoes his Creator's power display,And publishes to every landThe work of an Almighty hand.
Soon as the evening shades prevail,The moon takes up the wondrous tale,And nightly to the listening earthRepeats the story of her birth;Whilst all the stars that round her burn,And all the planets in their turn,Confirm the tidings as they roll,And spread the truth from pole to pole.
What though in solemn silence, allMove round this dark, terrestrial ball?What though nor real voice nor soundAmidst their radiant orbs be found?In Reason's ear they all rejoice,And utter forth a glorious voice,Forever singing as they shine:"The hand that made us is divine!"
Joseph Addison.
"Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing!How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing;""Every clod feels a stir of might,An instinct within it that reaches and towers,And groping blindly above it for light,Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;""... Lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,And watch intently Nature's gentle doings;They will be found softer than ringdoves' cooings.""Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then beauty is its own excuse for being.""They know the time to go!The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hourIn field and woodland, and each punctual flowerBows at the signal an obedient headAnd hastes to bed.""If so the sweetness of the wheatInto my soul might pass,And the clear courage of the grass.""Flower in the crannied wall,I pluck you out of the crannies;Hold you here, root and all, in my hand,Little flower—but if I could understandWhat you are, root and all, and all in all,I should know what God and man is."
"Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing!How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing;"
"Every clod feels a stir of might,An instinct within it that reaches and towers,And groping blindly above it for light,Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;"
"... Lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,And watch intently Nature's gentle doings;They will be found softer than ringdoves' cooings."
"Dear, tell them, that if eyes were made for seeing,Then beauty is its own excuse for being."
"They know the time to go!The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hourIn field and woodland, and each punctual flowerBows at the signal an obedient headAnd hastes to bed."
"If so the sweetness of the wheatInto my soul might pass,And the clear courage of the grass."
"Flower in the crannied wall,I pluck you out of the crannies;Hold you here, root and all, in my hand,Little flower—but if I could understandWhat you are, root and all, and all in all,I should know what God and man is."
Oh, the green things growing, the green things growing,The faint sweet smell of the green things growing!I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve,Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing!How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing;In the wonderful white of the weird moonlightOr the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing.I love, I love them so,—my green things growing!And I think that they love me, without false showing;For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much,With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.Dinah Maria Mulock.
Oh, the green things growing, the green things growing,The faint sweet smell of the green things growing!I should like to live, whether I smile or grieve,Just to watch the happy life of my green things growing.
Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of those green things growing!How they talk each to each, when none of us are knowing;In the wonderful white of the weird moonlightOr the dim dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing.
I love, I love them so,—my green things growing!And I think that they love me, without false showing;For by many a tender touch, they comfort me so much,With the soft mute comfort of green things growing.
Dinah Maria Mulock.
I stood tiptoe upon a little hill;The air was cooling and so very still,That the sweet buds which with a modest pridePull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems,Had not yet lost their starry diademsCaught from the early sobbing of the morn.The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn,And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they sleptOn the blue fields of heaven, and then there creptA little noiseless noise among the leaves,Born of the very sigh that silence heaves;For not the faintest motion could be seenOf all the shades that slanted o'er the green.John Keats.
I stood tiptoe upon a little hill;The air was cooling and so very still,That the sweet buds which with a modest pridePull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,Their scanty-leaved, and finely-tapering stems,Had not yet lost their starry diademsCaught from the early sobbing of the morn.The clouds were pure and white as flocks new-shorn,And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they sleptOn the blue fields of heaven, and then there creptA little noiseless noise among the leaves,Born of the very sigh that silence heaves;For not the faintest motion could be seenOf all the shades that slanted o'er the green.
John Keats.
Under the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with me,And tune his merry noteUnto the sweet bird's throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.Who doth ambition shun,And loves to live i' the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.William Shakespeare.From "As You Like It."
Under the greenwood tree,Who loves to lie with me,And tune his merry noteUnto the sweet bird's throat,Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,And loves to live i' the sun,Seeking the food he eats,And pleased with what he gets,Come hither, come hither, come hither!Here shall he seeNo enemyBut winter and rough weather.
William Shakespeare.
From "As You Like It."
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 thereSift the dark mold with kindly care,And press it o'er them tenderly,As, round the sleeping infant's feetWe softly fold the cradle sheet;So plant we the apple tree.What plant we in this apple tree?Buds, which the breath of summer daysShall 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 springsTo load the May wind's restless wings,When, from the orchard row, he poursIts 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 grassBetrays 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 vineAnd golden orange of the line,The fruit of the apple tree.The fruitage of this apple treeWinds, 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 seaShall think of childhood's careless dayAnd long, long hours of summer play,In the shade of the apple tree.Each year shall give this apple treeA 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 weShall 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 throwThin shadows on the ground below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress 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 yearsIs wasting this apple tree?"Who planted this old apple tree?"The children of that distant dayThus 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 rhymesOn planting the apple tree."William Cullen Bryant.
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 thereSift the dark mold with kindly care,And press it o'er them tenderly,As, round the sleeping infant's feetWe softly fold the cradle sheet;So plant we the apple tree.
What plant we in this apple tree?Buds, which the breath of summer daysShall 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 springsTo load the May wind's restless wings,When, from the orchard row, he poursIts 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 grassBetrays 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 vineAnd golden orange of the line,The fruit of the apple tree.
The fruitage of this apple treeWinds, 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 seaShall think of childhood's careless dayAnd long, long hours of summer play,In the shade of the apple tree.
Each year shall give this apple treeA 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 weShall 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 throwThin shadows on the ground below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress 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 yearsIs wasting this apple tree?
"Who planted this old apple tree?"The children of that distant dayThus 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 rhymesOn planting the apple tree."
William Cullen Bryant.
[6]By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.
[6]By courtesy of D. Appleton & Co., publishers of Bryant's Complete Poetical Works.
Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring?In the spring?An English apple orchard in the spring?When the spreading trees are hoaryWith their wealth of promised glory,And the mavis sings its story,In the spring.Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring?In the spring?And caught their subtle odors in the spring?Pink buds pouting at the light,Crumpled petals baby white,Just to touch them a delight—In the spring.Have you walked beneath the blossoms in the spring?In the spring?Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring?When the pink cascades are falling,And the silver brooklets brawling,And the cuckoo bird soft calling,In the spring.If you have not, then you know not, in the spring,In the spring,Half the color, beauty, wonder of the spring,No sweet sight can I rememberHalf so precious, half so tender,As the apple blossoms renderIn the spring.William Martin.
Have you seen an apple orchard in the spring?In the spring?An English apple orchard in the spring?When the spreading trees are hoaryWith their wealth of promised glory,And the mavis sings its story,In the spring.
Have you plucked the apple blossoms in the spring?In the spring?And caught their subtle odors in the spring?Pink buds pouting at the light,Crumpled petals baby white,Just to touch them a delight—In the spring.
Have you walked beneath the blossoms in the spring?In the spring?Beneath the apple blossoms in the spring?When the pink cascades are falling,And the silver brooklets brawling,And the cuckoo bird soft calling,In the spring.
If you have not, then you know not, in the spring,In the spring,Half the color, beauty, wonder of the spring,No sweet sight can I rememberHalf so precious, half so tender,As the apple blossoms renderIn the spring.
William Martin.
A goodly host one day was mine,A Golden Apple his only sign,That hung from a long branch, ripe and fine.My host was the bountiful apple-tree;He gave me shelter and nourished meWith the best of fare, all fresh and free.And light-winged guests came not a few,To his leafy inn, and sipped the dew,And sang their best songs ere they flew.I slept at night on a downy bedOf moss, and my Host benignly spreadHis own cool shadow over my head.When I asked what reckoning there might be,He shook his broad boughs cheerily:—A blessing be thine, green Apple-tree!Thomas Westwood.
A goodly host one day was mine,A Golden Apple his only sign,That hung from a long branch, ripe and fine.
My host was the bountiful apple-tree;He gave me shelter and nourished meWith the best of fare, all fresh and free.
And light-winged guests came not a few,To his leafy inn, and sipped the dew,And sang their best songs ere they flew.
I slept at night on a downy bedOf moss, and my Host benignly spreadHis own cool shadow over my head.
When I asked what reckoning there might be,He shook his broad boughs cheerily:—A blessing be thine, green Apple-tree!
Thomas Westwood.
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 seenTo 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 aboveOn stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.Jones Very.
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 seenTo 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 aboveOn stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.
Jones Very.
These little firs to-day are thingsTo clasp into a giant's cap,Or fans to suit his lady's lap.From many winters, many springsShall cherish them in strength and sap,Till they be marked upon the map,A wood for the wind's wanderings.All seed is in the sower's hands:And what at first was trained to spreadIts shelter for some single head,—Yea, even such fellowship of wands,—May hide the sunset, and the shadeOf its great multitude be laidUpon the earth and elder sands.Dante G. Rossetti.
These little firs to-day are thingsTo clasp into a giant's cap,Or fans to suit his lady's lap.From many winters, many springsShall cherish them in strength and sap,Till they be marked upon the map,A wood for the wind's wanderings.All seed is in the sower's hands:And what at first was trained to spreadIts shelter for some single head,—Yea, even such fellowship of wands,—May hide the sunset, and the shadeOf its great multitude be laidUpon the earth and elder sands.
Dante G. Rossetti.
Softer than silence, stiller than still airFloat down from high pine-boughs the slender leaves.The forest floor its annual boon receivesThat comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair.Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bareOld rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weavesOf paler yellow than autumnal sheavesOr those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear.Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way;High up, the crows are gathering for the night;The delicate needles fill the air; the jayTakes through their golden mist his radiant flight;They fall and fall, till at November's closeThe snow-flakes drop as lightly—snows on snows.Thomas Wentworth Higginson.
Softer than silence, stiller than still airFloat down from high pine-boughs the slender leaves.The forest floor its annual boon receivesThat comes like snowfall, tireless, tranquil, fair.Gently they glide, gently they clothe the bareOld rocks with grace. Their fall a mantle weavesOf paler yellow than autumnal sheavesOr those strange blossoms the witch-hazels wear.Athwart long aisles the sunbeams pierce their way;High up, the crows are gathering for the night;The delicate needles fill the air; the jayTakes through their golden mist his radiant flight;They fall and fall, till at November's closeThe snow-flakes drop as lightly—snows on snows.
Thomas Wentworth Higginson.
First came the primrose,On the bank high.Like a maiden looking forthFrom the window of a towerWhen the battle rolls below,So look'd she,And saw the storms go by.Then came the wind-flowerIn the valley left behind,As a wounded maiden, paleWith purple streaks of woe,When the battle has roll'd byWanders to and fro,So totter'd she,Dishevell'd in the wind.Then came the daisies,On the first of May,Like a banner'd show's advanceWhile the crowd runs by the way,With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields.As a happy people come,So came they,As a happy people comeWhen the war has roll'd away,With dance and tabor, pipe and drum,And all make holiday.Then came the cowslip,Like a dancer in the fair,She spread her little mat of green,And on it danced she.With a fillet bound about her brow,A fillet round her happy brow,A golden fillet round her brow,And rubies in her hair.Sydney Dobell.
First came the primrose,On the bank high.Like a maiden looking forthFrom the window of a towerWhen the battle rolls below,So look'd she,And saw the storms go by.
Then came the wind-flowerIn the valley left behind,As a wounded maiden, paleWith purple streaks of woe,When the battle has roll'd byWanders to and fro,So totter'd she,Dishevell'd in the wind.
Then came the daisies,On the first of May,Like a banner'd show's advanceWhile the crowd runs by the way,With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping through the fields.
As a happy people come,So came they,As a happy people comeWhen the war has roll'd away,With dance and tabor, pipe and drum,And all make holiday.
Then came the cowslip,Like a dancer in the fair,She spread her little mat of green,And on it danced she.With a fillet bound about her brow,A fillet round her happy brow,A golden fillet round her brow,And rubies in her hair.
Sydney Dobell.
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight:With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,And taper fingers catching at all things,To bind them all about with tiny rings.Linger awhile upon some bending planksThat lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,And watch intently Nature's gentle doings:They will be found softer than ringdove's cooings.How silent comes the water round that bend!Not the minutest whisper does it sendTo the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grassSlowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.John Keats.
Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight:With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,And taper fingers catching at all things,To bind them all about with tiny rings.Linger awhile upon some bending planksThat lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,And watch intently Nature's gentle doings:They will be found softer than ringdove's cooings.How silent comes the water round that bend!Not the minutest whisper does it sendTo the o'erhanging sallows: blades of grassSlowly across the chequer'd shadows pass.
John Keats.
Only a tender little thing,So velvet soft and white it is;But march himself is not so strong,With all the great gales that are his.In vain his whistling storms he calls,In vain the cohorts of his powerRide down the sky on mighty blasts—He cannot crush the little flower.Its white spear parts the sod, the snowsThan that white spear less snowy are,The rains roll off its crest like spray,It lifts again its spotless star.Harriet Prescott Spofford.
Only a tender little thing,So velvet soft and white it is;But march himself is not so strong,With all the great gales that are his.
In vain his whistling storms he calls,In vain the cohorts of his powerRide down the sky on mighty blasts—He cannot crush the little flower.
Its white spear parts the sod, the snowsThan that white spear less snowy are,The rains roll off its crest like spray,It lifts again its spotless star.
Harriet Prescott Spofford.
Blossom of the almond trees,April's gift to April's bees,Birthday ornament of spring,Flora's fairest daughterling;Coming when no flowerets dareTrust the cruel outer air;When the royal kingcup boldDares not don his coat of gold;And the sturdy black-thorn sprayKeeps his silver for the May;—Coming when no flowerets would,Save thy lowly sisterhood,Early violets, blue and white,Dying for their love of light.Almond blossom, sent to teach usThat the spring-days soon will reach us,Lest, with longing over-tried,We die, as the violets died—Blossom, clouding all the treeWith thy crimson broidery,Long before a leaf of greenO'er the bravest bough is seen;Ah! when winter winds are swingingAll thy red bells into ringing,With a bee in every bell,Almond blossom, we greet thee well.Edwin Arnold.
Blossom of the almond trees,April's gift to April's bees,Birthday ornament of spring,Flora's fairest daughterling;Coming when no flowerets dareTrust the cruel outer air;When the royal kingcup boldDares not don his coat of gold;And the sturdy black-thorn sprayKeeps his silver for the May;—Coming when no flowerets would,Save thy lowly sisterhood,Early violets, blue and white,Dying for their love of light.Almond blossom, sent to teach usThat the spring-days soon will reach us,Lest, with longing over-tried,We die, as the violets died—Blossom, clouding all the treeWith thy crimson broidery,Long before a leaf of greenO'er the bravest bough is seen;Ah! when winter winds are swingingAll thy red bells into ringing,With a bee in every bell,Almond blossom, we greet thee well.
Edwin Arnold.