Anna Hempstead Branch
O comrade tree, perhaps alive as I—One process lacking of this mortal clay—Give me your constant outlook to the sky,The courtesy and cheer that fill your day.Your noble gift of perfect service teach;Your wisdom in the wild storm softly bentAware 'twill end; your patience that can reachAcross the years from clod to firmament.
O comrade tree, perhaps alive as I—One process lacking of this mortal clay—Give me your constant outlook to the sky,The courtesy and cheer that fill your day.
Your noble gift of perfect service teach;Your wisdom in the wild storm softly bentAware 'twill end; your patience that can reachAcross the years from clod to firmament.
Catherine Markham(Mrs. Edwin Markham)
The mountain hemlock droops her lacy branchesOh, so tenderlyIn the summer sun!Yet she has power to baffle avalanches—She, rising slenderlyWhere the rivers run.So pliant yet so powerful! Oh, see herSpread alluringlyHer thin sea-green dress!Now from white winter's thrall the sun would free herTo bloom unenduringlyIn his glad caress.
The mountain hemlock droops her lacy branchesOh, so tenderlyIn the summer sun!Yet she has power to baffle avalanches—She, rising slenderlyWhere the rivers run.
So pliant yet so powerful! Oh, see herSpread alluringlyHer thin sea-green dress!Now from white winter's thrall the sun would free herTo bloom unenduringlyIn his glad caress.
Harriet Monroe
Spread, delicate roots of my tree,Feeling, clasping, thrusting, growing;Sensitive pilgrim root tips roaming everywhere.Into resistant earth your filaments forcing,Down in the dark, unknown, desirous:The strange ceaseless life of you, eating and drinking of earth,The corrosive secretions of you, breaking the stuff of the world to your will.Tips of my tree in the springtime bursting to terrible beauty,Folded green life, exquisite, holy exultant;I feel in you the splendour, the autumn of ripe fulfilment,Love and labour and death, the sacred pageant of life.In the sweet curled buds of you,In the opening glory of leaves, tissues moulded of green light;Veined, cut, perfect to type,Each one like a child of high lineage bearing the sigil of race.The open hands of my tree held out to the touch of the airAs love that opens its arms and waits on the lover's will;The curtsey, the sway, and the toss of the spray as it sports with the breeze;Rhythmical whisper of leaves that murmur and move in the light;Crying of wind in the boughs, the beautiful music of pain:Thus do you sing and sayThe sorrow, the effort, the sweet surrender, the joy.Come! tented leaves of my tree;High summer is here, the moment of passionate life,The hushed, the maternal hour.Deep in the shaded green your mystery shielding,Heir of the ancient woods and parent of forests to be,Lo! to your keeping is given the Father's life-giving thought;The thing that is dream and deed and carries the gift of the past.For this, for this, great tree,The glory of maiden leaves, the solemn stretch of the bough,The wise persistent rootsInto the stuff of the world their filaments forcing,Breaking the earth to their need.Tall tree, your name is peace.You are the channel of God:His mystical sap,Elixir of infinite love, syrup of infinite power,Swelling and shaping, brooding and hiding,With out-thrust of delicate joy, with pitiless pageant of death,Sings in your cells;Its rhythmical cycle of lifeIn you is fulfilled.
Spread, delicate roots of my tree,Feeling, clasping, thrusting, growing;Sensitive pilgrim root tips roaming everywhere.Into resistant earth your filaments forcing,Down in the dark, unknown, desirous:The strange ceaseless life of you, eating and drinking of earth,The corrosive secretions of you, breaking the stuff of the world to your will.
Tips of my tree in the springtime bursting to terrible beauty,Folded green life, exquisite, holy exultant;I feel in you the splendour, the autumn of ripe fulfilment,Love and labour and death, the sacred pageant of life.In the sweet curled buds of you,In the opening glory of leaves, tissues moulded of green light;Veined, cut, perfect to type,Each one like a child of high lineage bearing the sigil of race.
The open hands of my tree held out to the touch of the airAs love that opens its arms and waits on the lover's will;The curtsey, the sway, and the toss of the spray as it sports with the breeze;Rhythmical whisper of leaves that murmur and move in the light;Crying of wind in the boughs, the beautiful music of pain:Thus do you sing and sayThe sorrow, the effort, the sweet surrender, the joy.
Come! tented leaves of my tree;High summer is here, the moment of passionate life,The hushed, the maternal hour.Deep in the shaded green your mystery shielding,Heir of the ancient woods and parent of forests to be,Lo! to your keeping is given the Father's life-giving thought;The thing that is dream and deed and carries the gift of the past.For this, for this, great tree,The glory of maiden leaves, the solemn stretch of the bough,The wise persistent rootsInto the stuff of the world their filaments forcing,Breaking the earth to their need.
Tall tree, your name is peace.You are the channel of God:His mystical sap,Elixir of infinite love, syrup of infinite power,Swelling and shaping, brooding and hiding,With out-thrust of delicate joy, with pitiless pageant of death,Sings in your cells;Its rhythmical cycle of lifeIn you is fulfilled.
Evelyn Underhill
Loveliest of trees, the cherry nowIs hung with bloom along the bough,And stands about the woodland rideWearing white for Eastertide.Now, of my threescore years and ten,Twenty will not come again,And take from seventy springs a score,It only leaves me fifty more.And since to look at things in bloomFifty springs are little room,About the woodlands I will goTo see the cherry hung with snow.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry nowIs hung with bloom along the bough,And stands about the woodland rideWearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,Twenty will not come again,And take from seventy springs a score,It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloomFifty springs are little room,About the woodlands I will goTo see the cherry hung with snow.
A. E. Housman
I am the dancer of the woodI shimmer in the solitudeMen call me Birch Tree, yet I knowIn other days it was not so.I am a Dryad slim and whiteWho danced too long one summer night,And the Dawn found and prisoned me!Captive I moaned my liberty.But let the wood wind flutes beginTheir elfin music, faint and thin,I sway, I bend, retreat, advance,And evermore—I dance! I dance!
I am the dancer of the woodI shimmer in the solitudeMen call me Birch Tree, yet I knowIn other days it was not so.I am a Dryad slim and whiteWho danced too long one summer night,And the Dawn found and prisoned me!Captive I moaned my liberty.But let the wood wind flutes beginTheir elfin music, faint and thin,I sway, I bend, retreat, advance,And evermore—I dance! I dance!
Arthur Ketchum
You boast about your ancient line,But listen, stranger, unto mine:You trace your lineage afar,Back to the heroes of a warFought that a country might be free;Yea, farther—to a stormy seaWhere winter's angry billows tossed,O'er which your Pilgrim Fathers crossed.Nay, more—through yellow, dusty tomesYou trace your name to English homesBefore the distant, unknown WestLay open to a world's behest;Yea, back to days of those CrusadesWhen Turk and Christian crossed their blades,You point with pride to ancient names,To powdered sires and painted dames;You boast of this—your family tree;Now listen, stranger, unto me:When armored knights and gallant squires,Your own belovèd, honored sires,Were in their infants' blankets rolled,My fathers' youngest sons were old;When they broke forth in infant tearsMy fathers' heads were crowned with years,Yea, ere the mighty Saxon hostOf which you sing had touched the coast,Looked back as far as you look now.Yea, when the Druids trod the wood,My venerable fathers stoodAnd gazed through misty centuriesAs far as even Memory sees.When Britain's eldest first beheldThe light, my fathers then were eld.You of the splendid ancestry,Who boast about your family tree,Consider, stranger, this of mine—Bethink the lineage of a Pine.
You boast about your ancient line,But listen, stranger, unto mine:
You trace your lineage afar,Back to the heroes of a warFought that a country might be free;Yea, farther—to a stormy seaWhere winter's angry billows tossed,O'er which your Pilgrim Fathers crossed.Nay, more—through yellow, dusty tomesYou trace your name to English homesBefore the distant, unknown WestLay open to a world's behest;Yea, back to days of those CrusadesWhen Turk and Christian crossed their blades,You point with pride to ancient names,To powdered sires and painted dames;You boast of this—your family tree;Now listen, stranger, unto me:
When armored knights and gallant squires,Your own belovèd, honored sires,Were in their infants' blankets rolled,My fathers' youngest sons were old;When they broke forth in infant tearsMy fathers' heads were crowned with years,Yea, ere the mighty Saxon hostOf which you sing had touched the coast,Looked back as far as you look now.Yea, when the Druids trod the wood,My venerable fathers stoodAnd gazed through misty centuriesAs far as even Memory sees.When Britain's eldest first beheldThe light, my fathers then were eld.You of the splendid ancestry,Who boast about your family tree,
Consider, stranger, this of mine—Bethink the lineage of a Pine.
Douglas Malloch
Brother Tree:Why do you reach and reach?Do you dream some day to touch the sky?Brother Stream:Why do you run and run?Do you dream some day to fill the sea?Brother Bird:Why do you sing and sing?Do you dream—Young Man:Why do you talk and talk and talk?
Brother Tree:Why do you reach and reach?Do you dream some day to touch the sky?Brother Stream:Why do you run and run?Do you dream some day to fill the sea?Brother Bird:Why do you sing and sing?Do you dream—Young Man:Why do you talk and talk and talk?
Alfred Kreymborg
O quiet cottage room,Whose casements, looking o'er the garden-close,Are hid in wildings and the woodbine bloomAnd many a clambering rose,Sweet is thy light subdued,Gracious and soft, lingering upon my book,As that which shimmers through the branchèd woodAbove some dreamful nook!Leaning within my chair,Through the curtain I can see the stir—The gentle undulations of the air—Sway the dark-layered fir;And, in the beechen green,Mark many a squirrel romp and chirrup loud;While far beyond, the chestnut-boughs between,Floats the white summer cloud.Through the loopholes in the leaves,Upon the yellow slopes of far-off farms,I see the rhythmic cradlers and the sheavesGleam in the binders' arms.At times I note, nearby,The flicker tapping on some hollow bole;And watch the sun, against the sky,The fluting oriole;Or, when the day is done,And the warm splendors make the oak-top flush,Hear him, full-throated in the setting sun,—The darling wildwood thrush.O sanctuary shadeEnfold one round! I would no longer roam:Let not the thought of wandering e'er invadeThis still, reclusive home!Draw closer, O ye trees!Veil from my sight e'en the loved mountain's blue;The world may be more fair beyond all these,Yet I would know but you!
O quiet cottage room,Whose casements, looking o'er the garden-close,Are hid in wildings and the woodbine bloomAnd many a clambering rose,
Sweet is thy light subdued,Gracious and soft, lingering upon my book,As that which shimmers through the branchèd woodAbove some dreamful nook!
Leaning within my chair,Through the curtain I can see the stir—The gentle undulations of the air—Sway the dark-layered fir;
And, in the beechen green,Mark many a squirrel romp and chirrup loud;While far beyond, the chestnut-boughs between,Floats the white summer cloud.
Through the loopholes in the leaves,Upon the yellow slopes of far-off farms,I see the rhythmic cradlers and the sheavesGleam in the binders' arms.
At times I note, nearby,The flicker tapping on some hollow bole;And watch the sun, against the sky,The fluting oriole;
Or, when the day is done,And the warm splendors make the oak-top flush,Hear him, full-throated in the setting sun,—The darling wildwood thrush.
O sanctuary shadeEnfold one round! I would no longer roam:Let not the thought of wandering e'er invadeThis still, reclusive home!
Draw closer, O ye trees!Veil from my sight e'en the loved mountain's blue;The world may be more fair beyond all these,Yet I would know but you!
Lloyd Mifflin
In the Garden of Eden, planted by God,There were goodly trees in the springing sod,—Trees of beauty and height and grace,To stand in splendor before His face.Apple and hickory, ash and pear,Oak and beech and the tulip rare,The trembling aspen, the noble pine,The sweeping elm by the river line;Trees for the birds to build and sing,And the lilac tree for a joy in spring;Trees to turn at the frosty callAnd 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 eyesFrom the gift to the Giver of Paradise,On the crown of a hill, for all to see,God planted a scarlet maple tree.
In the Garden of Eden, planted by God,There were goodly trees in the springing sod,—
Trees of beauty and height and grace,To stand in splendor before His face.
Apple and hickory, ash and pear,Oak and beech and the tulip rare,
The trembling aspen, the noble pine,The sweeping elm by the river line;
Trees for the birds to build and sing,And the lilac tree for a joy in spring;
Trees to turn at the frosty callAnd 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 eyesFrom the gift to the Giver of Paradise,
On the crown of a hill, for all to see,God planted a scarlet maple tree.
Bliss Carman
There's something in a noble tree—What shall I say? a soul?For 'tis not form, or aught we seeIn leaf or branch or bole.Some presence, though not understood,Dwells there alway, and seemsTo be acquainted with our mood,And mingles in our dreams.I would not say that trees at allWere of our blood and race,Yet, lingering where their shadows fall,I sometimes think I traceA kinship, whose far-reaching rootGrew when the world began,And made them best of all things muteTo be the friends of man.Held down by whatsoever mightUnto an earthly sod,They stretch forth arms for air and light,As we do after God;And when in all their boughs the breezeMoans loud, or softly sings,As our own hearts in us, the treesAre almost human things.What wonder in the days that burnedWith old poetic dream,Dead Phaëthon's fair sisters turnedTo poplars by the stream!In many a light cotillion steptThe trees when fluters blew;And many a tear, 'tis said, they weptFor 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 pineIs saying overhead;"Be beautiful," the elm-tree fineHas always finely said;"Be quick to feel," the aspen stillRepeats the whole day long;While, from the green slope of the hill,The oak-tree adds, "Be strong."When with my burden, as I hearTheir distant voices call,I rise, and listen, and draw near,"Be patient," say they all.
There's something in a noble tree—What shall I say? a soul?For 'tis not form, or aught we seeIn leaf or branch or bole.Some presence, though not understood,Dwells there alway, and seemsTo be acquainted with our mood,And mingles in our dreams.
I would not say that trees at allWere of our blood and race,Yet, lingering where their shadows fall,I sometimes think I traceA kinship, whose far-reaching rootGrew when the world began,And made them best of all things muteTo be the friends of man.
Held down by whatsoever mightUnto an earthly sod,They stretch forth arms for air and light,As we do after God;And when in all their boughs the breezeMoans loud, or softly sings,As our own hearts in us, the treesAre almost human things.
What wonder in the days that burnedWith old poetic dream,Dead Phaëthon's fair sisters turnedTo poplars by the stream!In many a light cotillion steptThe trees when fluters blew;And many a tear, 'tis said, they weptFor 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 pineIs saying overhead;"Be beautiful," the elm-tree fineHas always finely said;
"Be quick to feel," the aspen stillRepeats the whole day long;While, from the green slope of the hill,The oak-tree adds, "Be strong."When with my burden, as I hearTheir distant voices call,I rise, and listen, and draw near,"Be patient," say they all.
Samuel Valentine Cole
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 chatBeside my garden gate.My stately old aristocrats—I fancy still their talk must beOf rose-conserves and Persian cats,And lavender and Indian tea;—I wonder sometimes as I passIf they approve of me.I give them greeting night and morn,I like to think they answer, too,With that benign assurance bornWhen youth gives age the reverence due,And bend their wise heads as I goAs courteous ladies do.Long may you stand before my door,Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green,And bend with rustling welcome o'erThe many friends who pass between;And where the little children playLook down with gracious mien.
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 chatBeside my garden gate.
My stately old aristocrats—I fancy still their talk must beOf rose-conserves and Persian cats,And lavender and Indian tea;—I wonder sometimes as I passIf they approve of me.
I give them greeting night and morn,I like to think they answer, too,With that benign assurance bornWhen youth gives age the reverence due,And bend their wise heads as I goAs courteous ladies do.
Long may you stand before my door,Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green,And bend with rustling welcome o'erThe many friends who pass between;And where the little children playLook down with gracious mien.
Theodosia Garrison
I think that I shall never seeA poem lovely as a tree.A tree whose hungry mouth is prestAgainst 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 wearA 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.
I think that I shall never seeA poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prestAgainst 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 wearA 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
As in a rose-jar filled with petals sweetBlown long ago in some old garden place,Mayhap, where you and I, a little spaceDrank deep of love and knew that love was fleet—Or leaves once gathered from a lost retreatBy one who never will again retraceHer silent footsteps—one, whose gentle faceWas fairer than the roses at her feet;So, deep within the vase of memoryI keep my dust of roses fresh and dearAs in the days before I knew the smartOf time and death. Nor aught can take from meThe haunting fragrance that still lingers here—As in a rose-jar, so within the heart!
As in a rose-jar filled with petals sweetBlown long ago in some old garden place,Mayhap, where you and I, a little spaceDrank deep of love and knew that love was fleet—Or leaves once gathered from a lost retreatBy one who never will again retraceHer silent footsteps—one, whose gentle faceWas fairer than the roses at her feet;
So, deep within the vase of memoryI keep my dust of roses fresh and dearAs in the days before I knew the smartOf time and death. Nor aught can take from meThe haunting fragrance that still lingers here—As in a rose-jar, so within the heart!
Thomas S. Jones, Jr.
Old phantoms haunt it of the long-ago;Old ghosts of old-time lovers and of dreams:Within the quiet sunlight there, meseems,I see them walking where those lilies blow.The hardy phlox sways to some garments' flow;The salvia there with sudden scarlet streams,Caught from some ribbon of some throat that gleams,Petunia fair, in flounce and furbelow.I seem to hear their whispers in each windThat wanders 'mid the flowers. There they stand!Among the shadows of that apple tree!They are not dead, whom still it keeps in mind,This garden, planted by some lovely handThat keeps it fragrant with its memory.
Old phantoms haunt it of the long-ago;Old ghosts of old-time lovers and of dreams:Within the quiet sunlight there, meseems,I see them walking where those lilies blow.The hardy phlox sways to some garments' flow;The salvia there with sudden scarlet streams,Caught from some ribbon of some throat that gleams,Petunia fair, in flounce and furbelow.I seem to hear their whispers in each windThat wanders 'mid the flowers. There they stand!Among the shadows of that apple tree!They are not dead, whom still it keeps in mind,This garden, planted by some lovely handThat keeps it fragrant with its memory.
Madison Cawein
My heart is a garden of dreamsWhere you walk when day is done,Fair as the royal flowers,Calm as the lingering sun.Never a drouth comes there,Nor any frost that mars,Only the wind of loveUnder the early stars,—The living breath that movesWhispering to and fro,Like the voice of God in the duskOf the garden long ago.
My heart is a garden of dreamsWhere you walk when day is done,Fair as the royal flowers,Calm as the lingering sun.
Never a drouth comes there,Nor any frost that mars,Only the wind of loveUnder the early stars,—
The living breath that movesWhispering to and fro,Like the voice of God in the duskOf the garden long ago.
Bliss Carman
O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew,Far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you,And I see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleamWith a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream!I can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall,And the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall,And the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky,While overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by.I can see the trellised arbor, and the roses' crimson glow,And the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row,And the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil,And butterflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil.O, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west!O, the wild grape climbing sturdily to reach the oriole's nest!O, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creepIn a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep!Just beyond the moonlit garden I can see the orchard trees,With their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze,And the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture barsThe white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars.O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew,Far across the restless ocean flies my yearning heart to you,And I turn from storied castle, hoary fane, and ruined shrine,To the dear, familiar pleasaunce where my own white lilies shine—With a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in Paradise,From the battlements of heaven I shall turn my longing eyesAll the dim, resplendent spaces and the mazy stardrifts throughTo my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew!
O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew,Far across the leagues of distance flies my heart to-night to you,And I see your stately lilies in the tender radiance gleamWith a dim, mysterious splendor, like the angels of a dream!
I can see the stealthy shadows creep along the ivied wall,And the bosky depths of verdure where the drooping vine-leaves fall,And the tall trees standing darkly with their crowns against the sky,While overhead the harvest moon goes slowly sailing by.
I can see the trellised arbor, and the roses' crimson glow,And the lances of the larkspurs all glittering, row on row,And the wilderness of hollyhocks, where brown bees seek their spoil,And butterflies dance all day long, in glad and gay turmoil.
O, the broad paths running straightly, north and south and east and west!O, the wild grape climbing sturdily to reach the oriole's nest!O, the bank where wild flowers blossom, ferns nod and mosses creepIn a tangled maze of beauty over all the wooded steep!
Just beyond the moonlit garden I can see the orchard trees,With their dark boughs overladen, stirring softly in the breeze,And the shadows on the greensward, and within the pasture barsThe white sheep huddling quietly beneath the pallid stars.
O my garden! lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew,Far across the restless ocean flies my yearning heart to you,And I turn from storied castle, hoary fane, and ruined shrine,To the dear, familiar pleasaunce where my own white lilies shine—
With a vague, half-startled wonder if some night in Paradise,From the battlements of heaven I shall turn my longing eyesAll the dim, resplendent spaces and the mazy stardrifts throughTo my garden lying whitely in the moonlight and the dew!
Julia C. R. Dorr
As butterflies are but winged flowers,Half sorry for their change, who fain,So still and long they live on leaves,Would be thought flowers again.—E'en so my thoughts, that should expand,And grow to higher themes above,Return like butterflies to lieOn the old things I love.
As butterflies are but winged flowers,Half sorry for their change, who fain,So still and long they live on leaves,Would be thought flowers again.—
E'en so my thoughts, that should expand,And grow to higher themes above,Return like butterflies to lieOn the old things I love.
William H. Davies
There is a little garden-close,Girdled by golden apple trees,That through the long sweet summer hoursIs haunted by the hum of bees.The poppy tosses here its torch,And the tall bee-balm flaunts its fire,And regally the larkspur liftsThe slender azure of its spire.And from the phlox and mignonetteRich attars drift on every hand;And when star-vestured twilight comesThe pale moths weave a saraband.And crickets in the aisles of grassWith their clear fifing pierce the hush;And somewhere you may hear anearThe passion of the hermit-thrush.It is a place where dreams convene,Dreams of the dead years gone astray,Of love and loveliness borne backFrom some forgotten yesterday.It is a memory-hallowed spotWhere joy assumes its vernal guise,And two walk silent side by side,Youth's glory shining in their eyes.
There is a little garden-close,Girdled by golden apple trees,That through the long sweet summer hoursIs haunted by the hum of bees.
The poppy tosses here its torch,And the tall bee-balm flaunts its fire,And regally the larkspur liftsThe slender azure of its spire.
And from the phlox and mignonetteRich attars drift on every hand;And when star-vestured twilight comesThe pale moths weave a saraband.
And crickets in the aisles of grassWith their clear fifing pierce the hush;And somewhere you may hear anearThe passion of the hermit-thrush.
It is a place where dreams convene,Dreams of the dead years gone astray,Of love and loveliness borne backFrom some forgotten yesterday.
It is a memory-hallowed spotWhere joy assumes its vernal guise,And two walk silent side by side,Youth's glory shining in their eyes.
Clinton Scollard
This is the spirit flower,The ghost of an old regret;All night she stands in the garden-close,And her face with tears is wet.But I love the pale white rose,For she always seems to meA pallid nun who dreams all dayOf a distant memory.Alas! how well I knowThat every garden spotIs haunted by a gentle ghostWho will not be forgot.In the garden of the heart,Ere the sun of life is set,O many a wild rose blooms and dreamsOf many an old regret!
This is the spirit flower,The ghost of an old regret;All night she stands in the garden-close,And her face with tears is wet.But I love the pale white rose,For she always seems to meA pallid nun who dreams all dayOf a distant memory.
Alas! how well I knowThat every garden spotIs haunted by a gentle ghostWho will not be forgot.In the garden of the heart,Ere the sun of life is set,O many a wild rose blooms and dreamsOf many an old regret!
Charles Hanson Towne
Between the moss and stoneThe lonely lilies rise;Wasted and overgrownThe tangled garden lies.Weeds climb about the stoopAnd clutch the crumbling walls;The drowsy grasses droop—The night wind falls.The place is like a wood;No sign is there to tellWhere rose and iris stoodThat once she loved so well.Where phlox and asters grew,A leafless thornbush stands,And shrubs that never knewHer tender hands....Over the broken fenceThe moonbeams trail their shrouds;Their tattered cerementsCling to the gauzy clouds,In ribbons frayed and thin—And startled by the light,Silence shrinks deeper inThe depths of night.Useless lie spades and rakes;Rust's on the garden-tools.Yet, where the moonlight makesNebulous silver pools,A ghostly shape is cast—Something unseen has stirred ...Was it a breeze that passed?Was it a bird?Dead roses lift their headsOut of a grassy tomb;From ruined pansy-bedsA thousand pansies bloom.The gate is opened wide—The garden that has been,Now blossoms like a bride ...Who entered in?
Between the moss and stoneThe lonely lilies rise;Wasted and overgrownThe tangled garden lies.Weeds climb about the stoopAnd clutch the crumbling walls;The drowsy grasses droop—The night wind falls.
The place is like a wood;No sign is there to tellWhere rose and iris stoodThat once she loved so well.Where phlox and asters grew,A leafless thornbush stands,And shrubs that never knewHer tender hands....
Over the broken fenceThe moonbeams trail their shrouds;Their tattered cerementsCling to the gauzy clouds,In ribbons frayed and thin—And startled by the light,Silence shrinks deeper inThe depths of night.
Useless lie spades and rakes;Rust's on the garden-tools.Yet, where the moonlight makesNebulous silver pools,A ghostly shape is cast—Something unseen has stirred ...Was it a breeze that passed?Was it a bird?
Dead roses lift their headsOut of a grassy tomb;From ruined pansy-bedsA thousand pansies bloom.The gate is opened wide—The garden that has been,Now blossoms like a bride ...Who entered in?
Louis Untermeyer
It had been a trim garden,With parterres of fringed pinks and gillyflowers,and smooth-raked walks.Silks and satins had brushed the box edgesof its alleys.The curved stone lips of its fishpondshad held the rippled reflections of tricorns andpowdered periwigs.The branches of its trees had glittered with lanterns,and swayed to the music of flutes and violins.Now, the fishponds are green with scum;And paths and flower-bedsare run together and overgrown.Only at one end is an octagonal Summerhousenot yet in ruins.Through the lozenged panes of its windows,you can see the interior:A dusty bench; a fireplace,with a lacing of letters carved in the stone above it;A broken ball of worstedrolled away into a corner.Dolci, dolci, i giorni passati!
It had been a trim garden,With parterres of fringed pinks and gillyflowers,and smooth-raked walks.Silks and satins had brushed the box edgesof its alleys.The curved stone lips of its fishpondshad held the rippled reflections of tricorns andpowdered periwigs.The branches of its trees had glittered with lanterns,and swayed to the music of flutes and violins.
Now, the fishponds are green with scum;And paths and flower-bedsare run together and overgrown.Only at one end is an octagonal Summerhousenot yet in ruins.Through the lozenged panes of its windows,you can see the interior:A dusty bench; a fireplace,with a lacing of letters carved in the stone above it;A broken ball of worstedrolled away into a corner.
Dolci, dolci, i giorni passati!
Amy Lowell
I went out to the hazel woodBecause a fire was in my head,And cut and peeled a hazel wand,And hooked a berry to a thread;And when white moths were on the wing,And moth-like stars were flickering out,I dropped the berry in a stream,And caught a little silver trout.When I had laid it on the floor,I went to blow the fire a-flame,But something rustled on the floor,And some one called me by my name:It had become a glimmering girl,With apple-blossom in her hair,Who called me by my name and ranAnd faded through the brightening air.Though I am old with wanderingThrough hollow lands and hilly lands,I will find out where she has gone,And kiss her lips and take her hands;And walk among long dappled grass,And pluck till time and times are doneThe silver apples of the moon,The golden apples of the sun.
I went out to the hazel woodBecause a fire was in my head,And cut and peeled a hazel wand,And hooked a berry to a thread;And when white moths were on the wing,And moth-like stars were flickering out,I dropped the berry in a stream,And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor,I went to blow the fire a-flame,But something rustled on the floor,And some one called me by my name:It had become a glimmering girl,With apple-blossom in her hair,Who called me by my name and ranAnd faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wanderingThrough hollow lands and hilly lands,I will find out where she has gone,And kiss her lips and take her hands;And walk among long dappled grass,And pluck till time and times are doneThe silver apples of the moon,The golden apples of the sun.
W. B. Yeats
There were three cherry trees once,Grew in a garden all shady;And there for delight of so gladsome a sight,Walked a most beautiful lady,Dreamed a most beautiful lady.Birds in those branches did sing,Blackbird and throstle and linnet,But she walking there was by far the most fair—Lovelier than all else within it,Blackbird and throstle and linnet.But blossoms to berries do come,All hanging on stalks light and slender,And one long summer's day charmed that lady away,With vows sweet and merry and tender;A lover with voice low and tender.Moss and lichen the green branches deck;Weeds nod in its paths green and shady;Yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams,The ghost of that beautiful lady,That happy and beautiful lady.
There were three cherry trees once,Grew in a garden all shady;And there for delight of so gladsome a sight,Walked a most beautiful lady,Dreamed a most beautiful lady.
Birds in those branches did sing,Blackbird and throstle and linnet,But she walking there was by far the most fair—Lovelier than all else within it,Blackbird and throstle and linnet.
But blossoms to berries do come,All hanging on stalks light and slender,And one long summer's day charmed that lady away,With vows sweet and merry and tender;A lover with voice low and tender.
Moss and lichen the green branches deck;Weeds nod in its paths green and shady;Yet a light footstep seems there to wander in dreams,The ghost of that beautiful lady,That happy and beautiful lady.
Walter de la Mare
The white rose tree that spent its muskFor lovers' sweeter praise,The stately walks we sought at dusk,Have missed thee many days.Again, with once-familiar feet,I tread the old parterre—But, ah, its bloom is now less sweetThan when thy face was there.I hear the birds of evening call;I take the wild perfume;I pluck a rose—to let it fallAnd perish in the gloom.
The white rose tree that spent its muskFor lovers' sweeter praise,The stately walks we sought at dusk,Have missed thee many days.
Again, with once-familiar feet,I tread the old parterre—But, ah, its bloom is now less sweetThan when thy face was there.
I hear the birds of evening call;I take the wild perfume;I pluck a rose—to let it fallAnd perish in the gloom.
Arthur Upson
What is it like, to be a rose?Old Roses, softly, "Try and see."Nay, I will tarry. Let me beIn my green peacefulness and smile.I will stay here and dream awhile.'Tis well for little buds to dream,Dream—dream—who knows—Say, is it good to be a rose?Old roses, tell me! Is it good?Old Roses, very softly, "Good."I am afraid to be a rose!This little sphere wherein I wait,Curled up and small and delicate,Lets in a twilight of pure green,Wherein are dreams of night and mornAnd the sweet stillness of a worldWhere all things are that are unborn.Old Roses, "Better to be born."I cannot be a bud for long.My sheath is like a heart full blown,And I, the silence of a songWithdrawn into that heart alone,Well knowing that it shall be sung.Outside the great world comes and goes—I think I doubt, to be a rose—Old Roses, "Doubt? To be a Rose!"
What is it like, to be a rose?
Old Roses, softly, "Try and see."
Nay, I will tarry. Let me beIn my green peacefulness and smile.I will stay here and dream awhile.'Tis well for little buds to dream,Dream—dream—who knows—Say, is it good to be a rose?Old roses, tell me! Is it good?
Old Roses, very softly, "Good."
I am afraid to be a rose!This little sphere wherein I wait,Curled up and small and delicate,Lets in a twilight of pure green,Wherein are dreams of night and mornAnd the sweet stillness of a worldWhere all things are that are unborn.
Old Roses, "Better to be born."
I cannot be a bud for long.My sheath is like a heart full blown,And I, the silence of a songWithdrawn into that heart alone,Well knowing that it shall be sung.Outside the great world comes and goes—I think I doubt, to be a rose—
Old Roses, "Doubt? To be a Rose!"
Anna Hempstead Branch
There are no roses in the garden now,The summer birds have vanished oversea,The ashen keys hang rusty on the bough,Autumn's gold ensigns flame from tree to tree.Music and perfume sleep, and light is fled,Autumn's fine gold is faery gold, we know.Where shall we turn for joy when flowers are dead,When birds are silent, and the cold winds blow?The summer birds have vanished oversea,But Memory's palace-courts are full of song;There sings a nightingale for you and me,And there a hidden lute plays all day long.There are no roses in the garden now,But Memory's garden grows each day more fair;Sun, moon, and stars her orchard close endow,And there bloom roses—roses everywhere.
There are no roses in the garden now,The summer birds have vanished oversea,The ashen keys hang rusty on the bough,Autumn's gold ensigns flame from tree to tree.
Music and perfume sleep, and light is fled,Autumn's fine gold is faery gold, we know.Where shall we turn for joy when flowers are dead,When birds are silent, and the cold winds blow?
The summer birds have vanished oversea,But Memory's palace-courts are full of song;There sings a nightingale for you and me,And there a hidden lute plays all day long.
There are no roses in the garden now,But Memory's garden grows each day more fair;Sun, moon, and stars her orchard close endow,And there bloom roses—roses everywhere.
Rosamund Marriott Watson