Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme These woes of mine fulfil, Here, firm, I rest,—they must be best, Because they are Thy will. Then all I want (oh, do Thou grant This one request of mine!) Since to enjoy Thou dost deny, Assist me to resign!

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



OLD WINTER

Old Whiter sad, in snow yclad, Is making a doleful din; But let him howl till he crack his jowl, We will not let him in.

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift His hoary, haggard form, And scowling stand, with his wrinkled hand Outstretching to the storm.

And let his weird and sleety beard Stream loose upon the blast, And, rustling, chime to the tinkling rime From his bald head falling fast.

Let his baleful breath shed blight and death On herb and flower and tree; And brooks and ponds in crystal bonds Bind fast, but what care we?

Let him push at the door,—in the chimney roar, And rattle the window-pane; Let him in at us spy with his icicle eye, But he shall not entrance gain.

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his freezing tooth, On our roof-tiles, till he tire; But we care not a whit, as we jovial sit Before our blazing fire.

Come, lads, let's sing, till the rafters ring; Come, push the can about;— From our snug fire-side this Christmas-tide We'll keep old Winter out.

Thomas Noel [1799-1861]



THE FROST

The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, And he said, "Now I shall be out of sight; So through the valley and over the height In silence I'll take my way. I will not go like that blustering train, The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, But I'll be as busy as they!"

Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its crest, He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he dressed With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast Of the quivering lake he spread A coat of mail, that it need not fear The downward point of many a spear That he hung on its margin, far and near, Where a rock could rear its head.

He went to the windows of those who slept, And over each pane like a fairy crept; Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, By the light of the moon were seen Most beautiful things. There were flowers and trees, There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees, There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, and these All pictured in silver sheen!

But he did one thing that was hardly fair,— He peeped in the cupboard, and, finding there That all had forgotten for him to prepare,— "Now, just to set them a-thinking, I'll bite this basket of fruit," said he; "This costly pitcher I'll burst in three, And the glass of water they've left for me Shall 'tchick!' to tell them I'm drinking."

Hannah Flagg Gould [1789-1865]



THE FROSTED PANE

One night came Winter noiselessly and leaned Against my window-pane. In the deep stillness of his heart convened The ghosts of all his slain.

Leaves, and ephemera, and stars of earth, And fugitives of grass,— White spirits loosed from bonds of mortal birth, He drew them on the glass.

Charles G. D. Roberts [1860-



THE FROST SPIRIT

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! You may trace his footsteps now On the naked woods and the blasted fields and the brown hill's withered brow. He has smitten the leaves of the gray old trees where their pleasant green came forth, And the winds, which follow wherever he goes, have shaken them down to earth.

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! from the frozen Labrador, From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear wanders o'er, Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice and the luckless forms below In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues grow!

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! on the rushing Northern blast, And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful breath went past. With an unscorched wing he has hurried on, where the fires of Hecla glow On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below.

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! and the quiet lake shall feel The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's heel; And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to the leaning grass, Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence pass.

He comes,—he comes,—the Frost Spirit comes! Let us meet him as we may, And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances high, And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding wing goes by!

John Greenleaf Whittier [1807-1892]



SNOW

Lo, what wonders the day hath brought, Born of the soft and slumbrous snow! Gradual, silent, slowly wrought; Even as an artist, thought by thought, Writes expression on lip and brow.

Hanging garlands the eaves o'erbrim, Deep drifts smother the paths below; The elms are shrouded, trunk and limb, And all the air is dizzy and dim With a whirl of dancing, dazzling snow.

Dimly out of the baffled sight Houses and church-spires stretch away; The trees, all spectral and still and white, Stand up like ghosts in the failing light, And fade and faint with the blinded day.

Down from the roofs in gusts are hurled The eddying drifts to the waste below; And still is the banner of storm unfurled, Till all the drowned and desolate world Lies dumb and white in a trance of snow.

Slowly the shadows gather and fall, Still the whispering snow-flakes beat; Night and darkness are over all: Rest, pale city, beneath their pall! Sleep, white world, in thy winding-sheet!

Clouds may thicken, and storm-winds breathe: On my wall is a glimpse of Rome,— Land of my longing!—and underneath Swings and trembles my olive-wreath; Peace and I are at home, at home!

Elizabeth Akers [1832-1911]



TO A SNOW-FLAKE

What heart could have thought you?— Past our devisal (O filigree petal!) Fashioned so purely, Fragilely, surely, From what Paradisal Imagineless metal, Too costly for cost? Who hammered you, wrought you, From argentine vapor?— God was my shaper. Passing surmisal, He hammered, He wrought me, From curled silver vapor, To lust of His mind:— Thou couldst not have thought me! So purely, so palely, Tinily, surely, Mightily, frailly, Insculped and embossed, With His hammer of wind, And His graver of frost."

Francis Thompson [1859?-1907]



THE SNOW-SHOWER

Stand here by my side and turn, I pray, On the lake below thy gentle eyes; The clouds hang over it, heavy and gray, And dark and silent the water lies; And out of that frozen mist the snow In wavering flakes begins to flow; Flake after flake They sink in the dark and silent lake.

See how in a living swarm they come From the chambers beyond that misty veil; Some hover in air awhile, and some Rush prone from the sky like summer hail. All, dropping swiftly, or settling slow, Meet, and are still in the depths below; Flake after flake Dissolved in the dark and silent lake.

Here delicate snow-stars, out of the cloud, Come floating downward in airy play, Like spangles dropped from the glistening crowd That whiten by night the Milky Way; There broader and burlier masses fall; The sullen water buries them all,— Flake after flake,— All drowned in the dark and silent lake.

And some, as on tender wings they glide From their chilly birth-cloud, dim and gray, Are joined in their fall, and, side by side, Come clinging along their unsteady way; As friend with friend, or husband with wife, Makes hand in hand the passage of life; Each mated flake Soon sinks in the dark and silent lake.

Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh; Flake after flake To lie in the dark and silent lake.

I see in thy gentle eyes a tear; They turn to me in sorrowful thought; Thou thinkest of friends, the good and dear, Who were for a time, and now are not; Like these fair children of cloud and frost, That glisten a moment and then are lost,— Flake after flake,— All lost in the dark and silent lake.

Yet look again, for the clouds divide; A gleam of blue on the water lies; And far away, on the mountain-side, A sunbeam falls from the opening skies; But the hurrying host that flew between The cloud and the water no more is seen; Flake after flake, At rest in the dark and silent lake.

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]



MIDWINTER

The speckled sky is dim with snow, The light flakes falter and fall slow; Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, Silently drops a silvery veil; And all the valley is shut in By flickering curtains gray and thin.

But cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree; The snow sails round him as he sings, White as the down of angels' wings.

I watch the slow flakes as they fall On bank and brier and broken wall; Over the orchard, waste and brown, All noiselessly they settle down, Tipping the apple-boughs, and each Light quivering twig of plum and peach.

On turf and curb and bower-roof The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; It paves with pearl the garden-walk; And lovingly round tattered stalk And shivering stem its magic weaves A mantle fair as lily-leaves.

The hooded beehive, small and low, Stands like a maiden in the snow; And the old door-slab is half hid Under an alabaster lid. All day it snows: the sheeted post Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; All day the blasted oak has stood A muffled wizard of the wood; Garland and airy cap adorn The sumach and the wayside thorn, And clustering spangles lodge and shine In the dark tresses of the pine.

The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; In surplice white the cedar stands, And blesses him with priestly hands.

Still cheerily the chickadee Singeth to me on fence and tree: But in my inmost ear is heard The music of a holier bird; And heavenly thoughts, as soft and white As snow-flakes, on my soul alight, Clothing with love my lonely heart, Healing with peace each bruised part, Till all my being seems to be Transfigured by their purity.

John Townsend Trowbridge [1827-1916]



A GLEE FOR WINTER

Hence, rude Winter! crabbed old fellow, Never merry, never mellow! Well-a-day! in rain and snow What will keep one's heart aglow? Groups of kinsmen, old and young, Oldest they old friends among; Groups of friends, so old and true That they seem our kinsmen too; These all merry all together Charm away chill Winter weather.

What will kill this dull old fellow? Ale that's bright, and wine that's mellow! Dear old songs for ever new; Some true love, and laughter too; Pleasant wit, and harmless fun, And a dance when day is done. Music, friends so true and tried, Whispered love by warm fireside, Mirth at all times all together, Make sweet May of Winter weather.

Alfred Domett [1811-1887]



THE DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year, you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year, you shall not die.

He lieth still, he doth not move; He will not see the dawn of day. He hath no other life above, He gave me a friend, and a true true-love, And the New-year will take 'em away. Old year, you must not go; So long as you have been with us, Such joy as you have seen with us, Old year, you shall not go.

He frothed his bumpers to the brim; A jollier year we shall not see. But though his eyes are waxing dim, And though his foes speak ill of him, He was a friend to me. Old year, you shall not die; We did so laugh and cry with you, I've half a mind to die with you, Old year, if you must die.

He was full of joke and jest, But all his merry quips are o'er. To see him die, across the waste His son and heir doth ride post-haste, But he'll be dead before. Every one for his own. The night is starry and cold, my friend, And the New-year, blithe and bold, my friend, Comes up to take his own.

How hard he breathes! over the snow I heard just now the crowing cock. The shadows flicker to and fro: The cricket chirps; the light burns low; 'Tis nearly twelve o'clock. Shake hands before you die. Old year, we'll dearly rue for you. What is it we can do for you? Speak out before you die.

His face is growing sharp and thin. Alack! our friend is gone. Close up his eyes; tie up his chin; Step from the corpse, and let him in That standeth there alone, And waiteth at the door. There's a new foot on the floor, my friend, And a new face at the door, my friend, A new face at the door.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



DIRGE FOR THE YEAR

"Orphan Hours, the Year is dead: Come and sigh, come and weep." "Merry Hours, smile instead, For the Year is but asleep. See, it smiles as it is sleeping, Mocking your untimely weeping."

"As an earthquake rocks a corse In its coffin in the clay, So white Winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the death-cold Year to-day; Solemn Hours! wail aloud For your mother in her shroud."

"As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days Rocks the Year:—be calm and mild, Trembling Hours; she will arise With new love within her eyes.

"January gray is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier; March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps—but, O, ye Hours, Follow with May's fairest flowers."

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



WOOD AND FIELD AND RUNNING BROOK



WALDEINSAMKEIT



I do not count the hours I spend In wandering by the sea; The forest is my loyal friend, Like God it useth me.

In plains that room for shadows make Of skirting hills to lie, Bound in by streams which give and take Their colors from the sky;

Or on the mountain-crest sublime, Or down the oaken glade, O what have I to do with time? For this the day was made.

Cities of mortals woe-begone Fantastic care derides, But in the serious landscape lone Stern benefit abides.

Sheen will tarnish, honey cloy, And merry is only a mask of sad, But, sober on a fund of joy, The woods at heart are glad.

There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain.

Still on the seeds of all he made The rose of beauty burns; Through times that wear and forms that fade, Immortal youth returns.

The black ducks mounting from the lake, The pigeon in the pines, The bittern's boom, a desert make Which no false art refines.

Down in yon watery nook, Where bearded mists divide, The gray old gods whom Chaos knew, The sires of Nature, hide.

Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, O, few to scale those uplands dare, Though they to all belong!

See thou bring not to field or stone The fancies found in books; Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, To brave the landscape's looks.

Oblivion here thy wisdom is, Thy thrift, the sleep of cares; For a proud idleness like this Crowns all thy mean affairs.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]



"WHEN IN THE WOODS I WANDER ALL ALONE"

When in the woods I wander all alone, The woods that are my solace and delight, Which I more covet than a prince's throne, My toil by day and canopy by night; (Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light, These lights shall light us to old age's gate, While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright, Heavy with fear, death's fearful summons wait;) Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone, Weighing in thought the worlds no-happiness, I cannot choose but wonder at its moan, Since so plain joys the woody life can bless: Then live who may where honied words prevail, I with the deer, and with the nightingale!

Edward Hovell-Thurlow [1781-1829]



OUT IN THE FIELDS

The little cares that fretted me, I lost them yesterday Among the fields above the sea, Among the winds at play, Among the lowing of the herds, The rustling of the trees, Among the singing of the birds, The humming of the bees.

The foolish fears of what might pass I cast them all away Among tile clover-scented grass, Among the new-mown hay, Among the hushing of the corn, Where drowsy poppies nod, Where ill thoughts die and good are born— Out in the fields of God.

Unknown [Has been erroneously attributed to Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Louise Imogen Guiney]



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 shells,— 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, God 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 grass 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. An' down below's the cloty brook Where I did vish with line an' hook, An' beat, in playsome dips and zwims, The foamy stream, wi' white-skinned lim's. An' there my mother nimbly shot Her knitten-needles, as she zot At evenen down below the wide Woak's head, wi' father at her zide. An' I've a-played wi' many a bwoy, That's now a man an' gone awoy; Zoo I do like noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

An' there, in leater years, I roved Wi' thik poor maid I fondly loved,— The maid too feair to die so soon,— When evenen twilight, or the moon, Cast light enough 'ithin the pleace To show the smiles upon her feace, Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool, An' lips an' cheaks so soft as wool. There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm, Wi' love that burned but thought noo harm, Below the wide-boughed tree we passed The happy hours that went too vast; An' though she'll never be my wife, She's still my leaden star o' life. She's gone: an' she've a-left to me Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree; Zoo I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

An' oh! mid never ax nor hook Be brought to spweil his steately look; Nor ever roun' his ribby zides Mid cattle rub ther heairy hides; Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep His lwonesome sheade vor harmless sheep; An' let en grow, an' let en spread, An' let en live when I be dead. But oh! if men should come an' vell The girt woak tree that's in the dell, An' build his planks 'ithin the zide O' zome girt ship to plough the tide, Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea, A sailen wi' the girt woak tree: An' I upon his planks would stand, An' die a-fighten vor the land,— The land so dear,—the land so free,— The land that bore the girt woak tree; Vor I do love noo tree so well 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

William Barnes [1801-1886]



TO THE WILLOW-TREE

Thou art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distressed, And left of love, are crowned.

When once the lover's rose is dead, Or laid aside forlorn: Then willow-garlands 'bout the head Bedewed with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lovers' bane, Poor maids rewarded be For their love lost, their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth and love-sick maid Come to weep out the night.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



ENCHANTMENT

The deep seclusion of this forest path,— O'er which the green boughs weave a canopy; Along which bluet and anemone Spread dim a carpet; where the Twilight hath Her cool abode; and, sweet as aftermath, Wood-fragrance roams,—has so enchanted me, That yonder blossoming bramble seems to be A Sylvan resting, rosy from her bath: Has so enspelled me with tradition's dreams, That every foam-white stream that, twinkling, flows, And every bird that flutters wings of tan, Or warbles hidden, to my fancy seems A Naiad dancing to a Faun who blows Wild woodland music on the pipes of Pan.

Madison Cawein [1865-1914]



TREES

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed Against 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 wear A 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 [1886-1918]



THE HOLLY-TREE

O reader! hast thou ever stood to see The Holly-tree? The eye that contemplates it well perceives Its glossy leaves Ordered by an Intelligence so wise As might confound the Atheist's sophistries.

Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen, Wrinkled and keen; No grazing cattle, through their prickly round, Can reach to wound; But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes, And moralize; And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree Can emblem see Wherewith, perchance, to make a pleasant rhyme,— One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appear Harsh and austere; To those who on my leisure would intrude, Reserved and rude; Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And should my youth—as youth is apt, I know,— Some harshness show, All vain asperities I, day by day, Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The Holly-leaves their fadeless hues display Less bright than they; But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree?—

So, serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng; So would I seem, amid the young and gay, More grave than they; That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly-tree.

Robert Southey [1774-1843]



THE PINE

The elm lets fall its leaves before the frost, The very oak grows shivering and sere, The trees are barren when the summer's lost: But one tree keeps its goodness all the year.

Green pine, unchanging as the days go by, Thou art thyself beneath whatever sky: My shelter from all winds, my own strong pine, 'Tis spring, 'tis summer, still, while thou art mine.

Augusta Webster [1837-1894]



"WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE"

Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand, Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o'er land and sea,— And wouldst thou hew it down? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade; In all their gushing joy Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here; My father pressed my hand— Forgive this foolish tear, But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend! Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave! And, woodman, leave the spot; While I've a hand to save, Thy axe shall harm it not.

George Pope Morris [1802-1864]



THE BEECH TREE'S PETITION

O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom-born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made, And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long-forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that Love has whispered here, Or Beauty heard with ravished ear; As Love's own altar honor me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]



THE POPLAR FIELD

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade; And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade; The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves, Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view Of my favorite field, and the bank where they grew; And now in the grass behold they are laid, And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat, Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat; And the scene where his melody charmed me before Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away, And I must ere long lie as lowly as they, With a turf on my breast and a stone at my head, Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can, To muse on the perishing pleasures of man; Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see, Have a being less durable even than he.

William Cowper [1731-1800]



THE PLANTING OF THE APPLE-TREE

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 there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o'er them tenderly, As, round the sleeping infant's feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet; So plant we the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall 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 springs To load the May-winds restless wings, When, from the orchard-row, he pours Its 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 grass Betrays 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 vine And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-tree Winds 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 sea Shall think of childhood's careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-tree A 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 we Shall 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 throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress 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 years Is wasting this little apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?" The children of that distant day Thus 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 rhymes, On planting the apple-tree."

William Cullen Bryant [1794-1878]



OF AN ORCHARD

Good is an Orchard, the Saint saith, To meditate on life and death, With a cool well, a hive of bees, A hermit's grot below the trees.

Good is an Orchard: very good, Though one should wear no monkish hood. Right good, when Spring awakes her flute, And good in yellowing time of fruit.

Very good in the grass to lie And see the network 'gainst the sky, A living lace of blue and green, And boughs that let the gold between.

The bees are types of souls that dwell With honey in a quiet cell; The ripe fruit figures goldenly The soul's perfection in God's eye.

Prayer and praise in a country home, Honey and fruit: a man might come, Fed on such meats, to walk abroad, And in his Orchard talk with God.

Katherine Tynan Hinkson [1861-1931]



AN ORCHARD AT AVIGNON

The hills are white, but not with snow: They are as pale in summer time, For herb or grass may never grow Upon their slopes of lime.

Within the circle of the hills A ring, all flowering in a round, An orchard-ring of almond fills The plot of stony ground.

More fair than happier trees, I think, Grown in well-watered pasture land These parched and stunted branches, pink Above the stones and sand.

O white, austere, ideal place, Where very few will care to come, Where spring hath lost the waving grace She wears for us at home!

Fain would I sit and watch for hours The holy whiteness of thy hills, Their wreath of pale auroral flowers, Their peace the silence fills.

A place of secret peace thou art, Such peace as in an hour of pain One moment fills the amazed heart, And never comes again.

A. Mary F. Robinson [1857-



THE TIDE RIVER 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 weir; 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 flood-gates 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 [1819-1875]



THE BROOK'S SONG From "The Brook"

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery water-break Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]



ARETHUSA

Arethusa arose From her couch of snows In the Acroceraunian mountains,— From cloud and from crag, With many a jag, Shepherding her bright fountains. She leapt down the rocks With her rainbow locks Streaming among the streams; Her steps paved with green The downward ravine Which slopes to the western gleams: And gliding and springing, She went, ever singing, In murmurs as soft as sleep; The Earth seemed to love her, And Heaven smiled above her, As she lingered towards the deep.

Then Alpheus bold, On his glacier cold, With his trident the mountains strook, And opened a chasm In the rocks;—with the spasm All Erymanthus shook. And the black south wind It unsealed behind The urns of the silent snow, And earthquake and thunder Did rend in sunder The bars of the springs below: And the beard and the hair Of the River-god were Seen through the torrent's sweep, As he followed the light Of the fleet nymph's flight To the brink of the Dorian deep.

"Oh, save me! Oh, guide me! And bid the deep hide me! For he grasps me now by the hair!" The loud Ocean heard, To its blue depth stirred, And divided at her prayer; And under the water The Earth's white daughter Fled like a sunny beam; Behind her descended, Her billows, unblended With the brackish Dorian stream. Like a gloomy stain On the emerald main, Alpheus rushed behind,— As an eagle pursuing A dove to its ruin Down the streams of the cloudy wind.

Under the bowers Where the Ocean Powers Sit on their pearled thrones; Through the coral woods Of the weltering floods, Over heaps of unvalued stones; Through the dim beams Which amid the streams Weave a network of colored light; And under the caves Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's night:— Outspeeding the shark, And the swordfish dark,— Under the Ocean's foam, And up through the rifts Of the mountain clifts, They passed to their Dorian home.

And now from their fountains In Enna's mountains, Down one vale where the morning basks, Like friends once parted Grown single-hearted, They ply their watery tasks. At sunrise they leap From their cradles steep In the cave of the shelving hill; At noontide they flow Through the woods below And the meadows of asphodel; And at night they sleep In the rocking deep Beneath the Ortygian shore;— Like spirits that lie In the azure sky. When they love but live no more.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



THE CATARACT OF LODORE

"How does the water Come down at Lodore?" My little boy asked me Thus, once on a time; And moreover he tasked me To tell him in rhyme. Anon, at the word, There first came one daughter, And then came another, To second and third The request of their brother, And to hear how the water Comes down at Lodore, With its rush and its roar, As many a time They had seen it before. So I told them in rhyme, For of rhymes I had store; And 'twas in my vocation For their recreation That so I should sing; Because I was Laureate To them and the King.

From its sources which well In the tarn on the fell; From its fountains In the mountains, Its rills and its gills; Through moss and through brake, It runs and it creeps For a while, till it sleeps In its own little lake. And thence at departing, Awakening and starting, It runs through the reeds, And away it proceeds, Through meadow and glade, In sun and in shade, And through the wood-shelter, Among crags in its flurry, Helter-skelter, Hurry-skurry. Here it comes sparkling, And there it lies darkling; Now smoking and frothing Its tumult and wrath in, Till, in this rapid race On which it is bent, It reaches the place Of its steep descent.

The cataract strong Then plunges along, Striking and raging As if a war raging Its caverns and rocks among; Rising and leaping, Sinking and creeping, Swelling and sweeping, Showering and springing, Flying and flinging, Writhing and ringing, Eddying and whisking, Spouting and frisking, Turning and twisting, Around and around With endless rebound: Smiting and fighting, A sight to delight in; Confounding, astounding, Dizzying and deafening the ear with its sound.

Collecting, projecting, Receding and speeding, And shocking and rocking, And darting and parting, And threading and spreading, And whizzing and hissing, And dripping and skipping, And hitting and splitting, And shining and twining, And rattling and battling, And shaking and quaking, And pouring and roaring, And waving and raving, And tossing and crossing, And flowing and going, And running and stunning, And foaming and roaming, And dinning and spinning, And dropping and hopping, And working and jerking, And guggling and struggling, And heaving and cleaving, And moaning and groaning;

And glittering and frittering, And gathering and feathering, And whitening and brightening, And quivering and shivering, And hurrying and skurrying, And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding, And falling and brawling and sprawling, And driving and riving and striving, And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling, And sounding and bounding and rounding, And bubbling and troubling and doubling, And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling, And clattering and battering and shattering;

Retreating and beating and meeting and sheeting, Delaying and straying and playing and spraying, Advancing and prancing and glancing and dancing, Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling, And gleaming and streaming and steaming and beaming, And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing, And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping, And curling and whirling and purling and twirling, And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping, And dashing and flashing and splashing and clashing; And so never ending, but always descending, Sounds and motions for ever and ever are blending All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,— And this way the water comes down at Lodore.

Robert Southey [1774-1843]



SONG OF THE CHATTAHOOCHEE

Out of the hills of Habersham, Down the valleys of Hall, I hurry amain to reach the plain, Run the rapid and leap the fall, Split at the rock and together again, Accept my bed, or narrow or wide, And flee from folly on every side With a lover's pain to attain the plain Far from the hills of Habersham, Far from the valleys of Hall.

All down the hills of Habersham, All through the valleys of Hall, The rushes cried Abide, abide, The wilful waterweeds held me thrall, The laying laurel turned my tide, The ferns and the fondling grass said Stay, The dewberry dipped for to work delay, And the little reeds sighed Abide, abide, Here in the hills of Hahersham, Here in the valleys of Hall.

High o'er the hills of Habersham, Veiling the valleys of Hall, The hickory told me manifold Fair tales of shade, the poplar tall Wrought me her shadowy self to hold, The chestnut, the oak, the walnut, the pine, Overleaning, with flickering meaning and sign, Said, Pass not, so cold, these manifold Deep shades of the hills of Habersham, These glades in the valleys of Hall.

And oft in the hills of Habersham, And oft in the valleys of Hall, The white quartz shone, and the smooth brook-stone Did bar me of passage with friendly brawl, And many a luminous jewel lone —Crystals clear or a-cloud with mist, Ruby, garnet and amethyst— Made lures with the lights of streaming stone In the clefts of the hills of Habersham, In the beds of the valleys of Hall.

But oh, not the hills of Habersham, And oh, not the valleys of Hall Avail: I am fain for to water the plain. Downward the voices of Duty call— Downward, to toil and be mixed with the main. The dry fields burn, and the mills are to turn, And a myriad flowers mortally yearn, And the lordly main from beyond the plain Calls o'er the hills of Habersham, Calls through the valleys of Hall.

Sidney Lanier [1842-1881]



"FLOW GENTLY, SWEET AFTON"

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear; I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighboring hills, Far marked with the courses of clear-winding rill; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes; Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Robert Burns [1759-1796]



CANADIAN BOAT-SONG Written On The River St. Lawrence

Faintly as tolls the evening chime Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time. Soon as the woods on shore look dim, We'll sing at St. Ann's our parting hymn. Row, brothers, row, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Why should we yet our sail unfurl? There is not a breath the blue wave to curl, But, when the wind blows off the shore, Oh, sweetly we'll rest our weary oar. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Utawas' tide! this trembling moon Shall see us float over thy surges soon. Saint of this green isle! hear our prayers, Oh, grant us cool heavens and favoring airs. Blow, breezes, blow, the stream runs fast, The rapids are near and the daylight's past.

Thomas Moore [1779-1852]



THE MARSHES OF GLYNN

Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs,— Emerald twilights,— Virginal shy lights, Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows, When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnades Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods, Of the heavenly woods and glades, That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within The wide sea-marshes of Glynn;— Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noonday fire,— Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire, Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves,— Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves, Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood, Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good;—

O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine, While the riotous noonday sun of the June-day long did shine Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine; But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest, And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West, And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream,— Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak, And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the stroke Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low, And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know, And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within, That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore, And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain,—

Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face The vast sweet visage of space. To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn, Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn, For a mete and a mark To the forest-dark:— So: Affable live-oak, leaning low,— Thus—with your favor—soft, with a reverent hand, (Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!) Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand On the firm-packed sand, Free By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea. Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land. Inward and outward to northward and southward the beach-lines linger and curl As a silver wrought garment that clings to and follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl. Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight, Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light. And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high? The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky! A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade, Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade, Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain, To the terminal blue of the main.

Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea? Somehow my soul seems suddenly free From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin, By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.

Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea! Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun, Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod, Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God: I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies: By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God: Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.

And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be: Look how the grace of the sea doth go About and about through the intricate channels that flow Here and there, Everywhere, Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes, And the marsh is meshed with a million veins, That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow In the rose-and-silver evening glow. Farewell, my lord Sun! The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run 'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir; Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr; Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run; And the sea and the marsh are one.

How still the plains of the waters be! The tide is in his ecstasy; The tide is at his highest height: And it is night.

And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep Roll in on the souls of men, But who will reveal to our waking ken The forms that swim and the shapes that creep Under the waters of sleep? And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in On the length and the breadth of the marvelous marshes of Glynn.

Sidney Lanier [1842-1881]



THE TROSACHS

There's not a nook within this solemn Pass But were an apt confessional for one Taught by his summer spent, his autumn gone, That Life is but a tale of morning grass Withered at eve. From scenes of art which chase That thought away, turn, and with watchful eyes Feed it 'mid Nature's old felicities, Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glass Untouched, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest, If from a golden perch of aspen spray (October's workmanship to rival May) The pensive warbler of the ruddy breast That moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay, Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

William Wordsworth [1700-1850]



HYMN Before Sunrise, In The Vale Of Chamouni

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bald, awful head, O sovereign Blanc! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form, Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, How silently! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, As with a wedge! But when I look again, It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity! O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer I worshiped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy: Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, Into the mighty vision passing—there, As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale! O, struggling with the darkness all the night, And visited all night by troops of stars, Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? Who filled thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, From dark and icy caverns called you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, For ever shattered and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life, Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came), Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain— Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?— God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God! God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm! Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast— Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low In adoration, upward from thy base Slow traveling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, To rise before me—Rise, O ever rise! Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth! Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]



THE PEAKS

In the night Gray, heavy clouds muffled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God alone. "O Master, that movest the wind with a finger, Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. Grant that we may run swiftly across the world To huddle in worship at Thy feet."

In the morning A noise of men at work came through the clear blue miles, And the little black cities were apparent. "O Master, that knowest the meaning of raindrops, Humble, idle, futile peaks are we. Give voice to us, we pray, O Lord, That we may sing Thy goodness to the sun."

In the evening The far valleys were sprinkled with tiny lights. "O Master, Thou that knowest the value of kings and birds, Thou hast made us humble, idle, futile peaks. Thou only needest eternal patience; We bow to Thy wisdom, O Lord— Humble, idle, futile peaks."

In the night Gray, heavy clouds muffled the valleys, And the peaks looked toward God alone.

Stephen Crane [1871-1900]



KINCHINJUNGA Next To Everest Highest Of Mountains

O white priest of Eternity, around Whose lofty summit veiling clouds arise Of the earth's immemorial sacrifice To Brahma, in whose breath all lives and dies; O hierarch enrobed in timeless snows, First-born of Asia, whose maternal throes Seem changed now to a million human woes, Holy thou art and still! Be so, nor sound One sigh of all the mystery in thee found.

For in this world too much is overclear, Immortal ministrant to many lands, From whose ice altars flow, to fainting sands, Rivers that each libation poured expands. Too much is known, O Ganges-giving sire: Thy people fathom life, and find it dire; Thy people fathom death, and, in it, fire To live again, though in Illusion's sphere, Behold concealed as grief is in a tear.

Wherefore continue, still enshrined, thy rites, Though dark Tibet, that dread ascetic, falls, In strange austerity, whose trance appals,— Before thee, and a suppliant on thee calls. Continue still thy silence high and sure, That something beyond fleeting may endure— Something that shall forevermore allure Imagination on to mystic flights Wherein alone no wing of evil lights.

Yea, wrap thy awful gulfs and acolytes Of lifted granite round with reachless snows. Stand for eternity, while pilgrim rows Of all the nations envy thy repose. Ensheath thy swart sublimities, unscaled; Be that alone on earth which has not failed; Be that which never yet has yearned nor ailed, But since primeval Power upreared thy heights Has stood above all deaths and all delights.

And though thy loftier brother shall be king, High-priest be thou to Brahma unrevealed, While thy white sanctity forever sealed In icy silence leaves desire congealed. In ghostly ministrations to the sun, And to the mendicant stars and the moon-nun, Be holy still, till east to west has run, And till no sacrificial suffering On any shrine is left to tell life's sting.

Cale Young Rice [1872-



THE HILLS

Mussoorie and Chakrata Hill The Jumna flows between And from Chakrata's hills afar Mussoorie's vale is seen. The mountains sing together In cloud or sunny weather, The Jumna, through their tether, Foams white or plunges green.

The mountains stand and laugh at Time, They pillar up the Earth, They watch the ages pass, they bring New centuries to birth. They feel the daybreak shiver, They see Time passing ever, As flows the Jumna River As breaks the white sea-surf.

They drink the sun in a golden cup And in blue mist the rain; With a sudden brightening they meet the lightning Or ere it strikes the plain. They seize the sullen thunder And take it up for plunder And cast it down and under, And up and back again....

... Here, in the hills of ages I met thee face to face; O mother Earth, O lover Earth, Look down on me with grace. Give me thy passion burning, And thy strong patience, turning All wrath to power, all yearning To truth, thy dwelling-place.

Julian Grenfell [1888-1915]



HEMLOCK MOUNTAIN

By orange grove and palm-tree, we walked the southern shore, Each day more still and golden than was the day before. That calm and languid sunshine! How faint it made us grow To look on Hemlock Mountain when the storm hangs low!

To see its rocky pastures, its sparse but hardy corn, The mist roll off its forehead before a harvest morn; To hear the pine-trees crashing across its gulfs of snow Upon a roaring midnight when the whirlwinds blow.

Tell not of lost Atlantis, or fabled Avalon; The olive, or the vineyard, no winter breathes upon; Away from Hemlock Mountain we could not well forego, For all the summer islands where the gulf tides flow.

Sarah N. Cleghorn [1876-



SUNRISE ON RYDAL WATER

Come down at dawn from windless hills Into the valley of the lake, Where yet a larger quiet fills The hour, and mist and water make With rocks and reeds and island boughs One silence and one element, Where wonder goes surely as once It went By Galilean prows.

Moveless the water and the mist, Moveless the secret air above, Hushed, as upon some happy tryst The poised expectancy of love; What spirit is it that adores What mighty presence yet unseen? What consummation works apace Between These rapt enchanted shores?

Never did virgin beauty wake Devouter to the bridal feast Than moves this hour upon the lake In adoration to the east. Here is the bride a god may know, The primal will, the young consent, Till surely upon the appointed mood Intent The god shall leap—and, lo,

Over the lake's end strikes the sun— White, flameless fire; some purity Thrilling the mist, a splendor won Out of the world's heart. Let there be Thoughts, and atonements, and desires; Proud limbs, and undeliberate tongue; Where now we move with mortal care Among Immortal dews and fires.

So the old mating goes apace, Wind with the sea, and blood with thought, Lover with lover; and the grace Of understanding comes unsought When stars into the twilight steer, Or thrushes build among the may, Or wonder moves between the hills, And day Comes up on Rydal mere.

John Drinkwater [1882-



THE DESERTED PASTURE

I love the stony pasture That no one else will have. The old gray rocks so friendly seem, So durable and brave.

In tranquil contemplation It watches through the year, Seeing the frosty stars arise, The slender moons appear.

Its music is the rain-wind, Its choristers the birds, And there are secrets in its heart Too wonderful for words.

It keeps the bright-eyed creatures That play about its walls, Though long ago its milking herds Were banished from their stalls.

Only the children come there, For buttercups in May, Or nuts in autumn, where it lies Dreaming the hours away.

Long since its strength was given To making good increase, And now its soul is turned again To beauty and to peace.

There in the early springtime The violets are blue, And adder-tongues in coats of gold Are garmented anew.

There bayberry and aster Are crowded on its floors, When marching summer halts to praise The Lord of Out-of-doors.

And there October passes In gorgeous livery,— In purple ash, and crimson oak, And golden tulip tree.

And when the winds of winter Their bugle blasts begin, The snowy hosts of heaven arrive To pitch their tents therein.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]



TO MEADOWS

Ye have been fresh and green; Ye have been filled with flowers; And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours.

Ye have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home.

Ye've heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round, Each virgin, like a Spring, With honeysuckles crowned.

But now we see none here Whose silvery feet did tread, And with dishevelled hair Adorned this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock, and needy grown, Ye're left here to lament Your poor estates, alone.

Robert Herrick [1591-1674]



THE CLOUD

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers From the seas and the streams; I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet buds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers Lightning my pilot sits; In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits.

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me, Lured by the love of the Genii that move In the depths of the purple sea; Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain-crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The Stars peep behind her and peer. And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are each paved with the moon and these.

I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, And the Moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, When the Whirlwinds my banner unfurl. From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof; The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-colored bow; The Sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, While the moist Earth was laughing below.

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky: I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb I arise, and unbuild it again.

Percy Bysshe Shelley [1792-1822]



APRIL RAIN

It is not raining rain for me, It's raining daffodils; In every dimpled drop I see Wild flowers on the hills.

The clouds of gray engulf the day And overwhelm the town; It is not raining rain to me, It's raining roses down.

It is not raining rain to me, But fields of clover bloom, Where any buccaneering bee Can find a bed and room.

A health unto the happy, A fig for him who frets! It is not raining rain to me, It's raining violets.

Robert Loveman [1864-1923]



SUMMER INVOCATION

O gentle, gentle summer rain, Let not the silver lily pine, The drooping lily pine in vain To feel that dewy touch of thine,— To drink thy freshness once again, O gentle, gentle summer rain!

In heat the landscape quivering lies; The cattle pant beneath the tree; Through parching air and purple skies The earth looks up, in vain, for thee; For thee—for thee, it looks in vain O gentle, gentle summer rain.

Come thou, and brim the meadow streams, And soften all the hills with mist, O falling dew! from burning dreams By thee shall herb and flower be kissed, And Earth shall bless thee yet again, O gentle, gentle summer rain.

William Cox Bennett [1820-1895]



APRIL RAIN

The April rain, the April rain, Comes slanting down in fitful showers, Then from the furrow shoots the grain, And banks are edged with nestling flowers; And in gray shaw and woodland bowers The cuckoo through the April rain Calls once again.

The April sun, the April sun, Glints through the rain in fitful splendor, And in gray shaw and woodland dun The little leaves spring forth and tender Their infant hands, yet weak and slender, For warmth towards the April sun, One after one.

And between shower and shine hath birth The rainbow's evanescent glory; Heaven's light that breaks on mist of earth! Frail symbol of our human story, It flowers through showers where, looming hoary, The rain-clouds flash with April mirth, Like Life on earth.

Mathilde Blind [1841-1896]



TO THE RAINBOW

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art;—

Still seem; as to my childhood's sight, A midway station given For happy spirits to alight Betwixt the earth and heaven.

Can all that Optics teach unfold Thy form to please me so, As when I dreamt of gems and gold Hid in thy radiant bow?

When Science from Creation's face Enchantment's veil withdraws, What lovely visions yield their place To cold material laws!

And yet, fair bow, no fabling dreams, But words of the Most High, Have told why first thy robe of beams Was woven in the sky.

When o'er the green, undeluged earth Heaven's covenant thou didst shine, How came the world's gray fathers forth To watch thy sacred sign!

And when its yellow luster smiled O'er mountains yet untrod, Each mother held aloft her child To bless the bow of God.

Methinks, thy jubilee to keep, The first-made anthem rang On earth, delivered from the deep, And the first poet sang.

Nor ever shall the Muse's eye Unraptured greet thy beam; Theme of primeval prophecy, Be still the prophet's theme!

The earth to thee her incense yields, The lark thy welcome sings, When, glittering in the freshened fields, The snowy mushroom springs.

How glorious is thy girdle, cast O'er mountain, tower, and town, Or mirrored in the ocean vast, A thousand fathoms down!

As fresh in yon horizon dark, As young thy beauties seem, As when the eagle from the ark First sported in thy beam:

For, faithful to its sacred page, Heaven still rebuilds thy span; Nor lets the type grow pale with age, That first spoke peace to man.

Thomas Campbell [1777-1844]



GREEN THINGS GROWING



MY GARDEN

A garden is a lovesome thing, God wot! Rose plot, Fringed pool, Ferned grot— The veriest school Of peace; and yet the fool Contends that God is not— Not God! in gardens! when the eve is cool? Nay, but I have a sign: 'Tis very sure God walks in mine.

Thomas Edward Brown [1830-1897]



THE GARDEN

How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their incessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear? Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow; Society is all but rude To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name: Little, alas! they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own he found.

When we have run our passions' heat, Love hither makes his best retreat: The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons, as I pass, Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings, And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy Garden-state While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one, To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new! Where, from above, the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run: And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned, but with herbs and flowers

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]



A GARDEN Written After The Civil Wars

See how the flowers, as at parade, Under their colors stand displayed: Each regiment in order grows, That of the tulip, pink, and rose. But when the vigilant patrol Of stars walks round about the pole, Their leaves, that to the stalks are curled, Seem to their staves the ensigns furled. Then in some flower's beloved hut Each bee, as sentinel, is shut, And sleeps so too; but if once stirred, She runs you through, nor asks the word. O thou, that dear and happy Isle, The garden of the world erewhile, Thou Paradise of the four seas Which Heaven planted us to please, But, to exclude the world, did guard With watery if not flaming sword; What luckless apple did we taste To make us mortal and thee waste! Unhappy! shall we never more That sweet militia restore, When gardens only had their towers, And all the garrisons were flowers; When roses only arms might bear, And men did rosy garlands wear?

Andrew Marvell [1621-1678]



A GARDEN SONG

Here, in this sequestered close Bloom the hyacinth and rose; Here beside the modest stock Flaunts the flaring hollyhock; Here, without a pang, one sees Ranks, conditions, and, degrees.

All the seasons run their race In this quiet resting-place; Peach, and apricot, and fig Here will ripen, and grow big; Here is store and overplus,— More had not Alcinous!

Here, in alleys cool and green, Far ahead the thrush is seen; Here along the southern wall Keeps the bee his festival; All is quiet else—afar Sounds of toil and turmoil are.

Here be shadows large and long; Here be spaces meet for song; Grant, O garden-god, that I, Now that none profane is nigh,— Now that mood and moment please, Find the fair Pierides!

Austin Dobson [1840-1921]



"IN GREEN OLD GARDENS"

In green old gardens, hidden away From sight of revel and sound of strife, Where the bird may sing out his soul ere he die, Nor fears for the night, so he lives his day; Where the high red walls, which are growing gray With their lichen and moss embroideries, Seem sadly and sternly to shut out life, Because it is often as red as they;

Where even the bee has time to glide (Gathering gayly his honey's store) Right to the heart of the old-world flowers— China-asters and purple stocks, Dahlias and tall red hollyhocks, Laburnums raining their golden showers, Columbines prim of the folded core, And lupins, and larkspurs, and "London pride";

Where the heron is waiting amongst the reeds, Grown tame in the silence that reigns around, Broken only, now and then, By shy woodpecker or noisy jay, By the far-off watch-dog's muffled bay; But where never the purposeless laughter of men, Or the seething city's murmurous sound Will float up over the river-weeds.

Here may I live what life I please, Married and buried out of sight,— Married to pleasure, and buried to pain,— Hidden away amongst scenes like these, Under the fans of the chestnut trees; Living my child-life over again, With the further hope of a fallen delight, Blithe as the birds and wise as the bees.

In green old gardens, hidden away From sight of revel and sound of strife,— Here have I leisure to breathe and move, And to do my work in a nobler way; To sing my songs, and to say my say; To dream my dreams, and to love my love; To hold my faith, and to live my life, Making the most of its shadowy day.

Violet Fane [1843-1905]



A BENEDICTINE GARDEN

Through all the wind-blown aisles of May, Faint bells of perfume swing and fall. Within this apple-petalled wall (A gray east, flecked with rosy day) The pink laburnum lays her cheek In married, matchless, lovely bliss, Against her golden mate, to seek His airy kiss.

Tulips, in faded splendor drest, Brood o'er their beds, a slumbrous gloom. Dame Peony, red and ripe with bloom, Swells the silk housing of her breast. The Lilac, drunk to ecstasy, Breaks her full flagons on the air, And drenches home the reeling bee Who found her fair.

O cowled Legion of the Cross, What solemn pleasantry is thine, Vowing to seek the life divine Through abnegation and through loss! Men but make monuments of sin Who walk the earth's ambitious round; Thou hast the richer realm within This garden ground.

No woman's voice takes sweeter note Than chanting of this plumed choir. No jewel ever wore the fire Hung on a dewdrop's quivering throat. A ruddier pomp and pageantry Than world's delight o'erfleets thy sod; And choosing this, thou hast in fee The peace of God.

Alice Brown [1857-



AN AUTUMN GARDEN

My tent stands in a garden Of aster and golden-rod, Tilled by the rain and the sunshine, And sown by the hand of God,— An old New England pasture Abandoned to peace and time, And by the magic of beauty Reclaimed to the sublime.

About it are golden woodlands Of tulip and hickory; On the open ridge behind it You may mount to a glimpse of sea,— The far-off, blue, Homeric Rim of the world's great shield, A border of boundless glamor For the soul's familiar field.

In purple and gray-wrought lichen The boulders lie in the sun; Along its grassy footpath, The white-tailed rabbits run. The crickets work and chirrup Through the still afternoon; And the owl calls at twilight Under the frosty moon.

The odorous wild grape clambers Over the tumbling wall, And through the autumnal quiet The chestnuts open and fall. Sharing time's freshness and fragrance, Part of the earth's great soul, Here man's spirit may ripen To wisdom serene and whole.

Shall we not grow with the asters?— Never reluctant nor sad, Not counting the cost of being, Living to dare and be glad. Shall we not lift with the crickets A chorus of ready cheer, Braving the frost of oblivion, Quick to be happy here?

The deep red cones of the sumach And the woodbine's crimson sprays Have bannered the common roadside For the pageant of passing days. These are the oracles Nature Fills with her holy breath, Giving them glory of color, Transcending the shadow of death.

Here in the sifted sunlight A spirit seems to brood On the beauty and worth of being, In tranquil, instinctive mood; And the heart, athrob with gladness Such as the wise earth knows, Wells with a full thanksgiving For the gifts that life bestows:

For the ancient and virile nurture Of the teeming primordial ground, For the splendid gospel of color, The rapt revelations of sound; For the morning-blue above us And the rusted gold of the fern, For the chickadee's call to valor Bidding the faint-heart turn;

For fire and running water, Snowfall and summer rain; For sunsets and quiet meadows, The fruit and the standing grain; For the solemn hour of moonrise Over the crest of trees, When the mellow lights are kindled In the lamps of the centuries.

For those who wrought aforetime, Led by the mystic strain To strive for the larger freedom, And live for the greater gain; For plenty and peace and playtime, The homely goods of earth, And for rare immaterial treasures Accounted of little worth;

For art and learning and friendship, Where beneficent truth is supreme, Those everlasting cities Built on the hills of dream; For all things growing and goodly That foster this life, and breed The immortal flower of wisdom Out of the mortal seed.

But most of all for the spirit That can not rest nor bide In stale and sterile convenience, Nor safety proven and tried, But still inspired and driven, Must seek what better may be, And up from the loveliest garden Must climb for a glimpse of sea.

Bliss Carman [1861-1929]



UNGUARDED

The Mistress of the Roses Is haply far away, And through her garden closes What strange intruders stray.

See on its rustic spindles The sundrop's amber fire! And the goldenrod enkindles The embers on its spire.

The dodder's shining tangle From the meadow brook steals in, Where in this shadowed angle The pale lace-makers spin.

Here's Black-Eyed Susan weeping Into exotic air, And Bouncing Bet comes creeping Back to her old parterre.

Now in this pleasant weather— So sweetly reconciled— They dwell and dream together, The kin of court and wild.

Ada Foster-Murray [1857-1936]



THE DESERTED GARDEN

I mind me in the days departed, How often underneath the sun, With childish bounds I used to run To a garden long deserted.

The beds and walks were vanished quite; And wheresoe'er had struck the spade, The greenest grasses Nature laid To sanctify her right.

I called the place my wilderness; For no one entered there but I; The sheep looked in, the grass to espy, And passed it ne'ertheless.

The trees were interwoven wild, And spread their boughs enough about To keep both sheep and shepherd out, But not a happy child.

Adventurous joy it was for me! I crept beneath the boughs, and found A circle smooth of mossy ground Beneath a poplar tree.

Old garden rose-trees hedged it in, Bedropt with roses waxen-white, Well satisfied with dew and light And careless to be seen.

Long years ago, it might befall, When all the garden flowers were trim, The grave old gardener prided him On these the most of all.

Some lady, stately overmuch, Here moving with a silken noise, Has blushed beside them at the voice That likened her to such.

Or these, to make a diadem, She often may have plucked and twined, Half-smiling as it came to mind, That few would look at them.

Oh, little thought that lady proud, A child would watch her fair white rose, When buried lay her whiter brows, And silk was changed for shroud!

Nor thought that gardener, (full of scorns For men unlearned and simple phrase,) A child would bring it all its praise By creeping through the thorns!

To me upon my low moss seat, Though never a dream the roses sent, Of science or love's compliment, I ween they smelt as sweet.

It did not move my grief to see The trace of human step departed: Because the garden was deserted, The blither place for me!

Friends, blame me not! a narrow ken Hath childhood 'twixt the sun and sward; We draw the moral afterward, We feel the gladness then.

And gladdest hours for me did glide In silence at the rose-tree wall: A thrush made gladness musical Upon the other side.

Nor he nor I did e'er incline To peck or pluck the blossoms white; How should I know but roses might Lead lives as glad as mine?

To make my hermit-home complete, I brought clear water from the spring Praised in its own low murmuring, And cresses glossy wet.

And so, I thought, my likeness grew (Without the melancholy tale) To "gentle hermit of the dale," And Angelina too.

For oft I read within my nook Such minstrel stories; till the breeze Made sounds poetic in the trees, And then I shut the book.

If I shut this wherein I write, I hear no more the wind athwart Those trees, nor feel that childish heart Delighting in delight.

My childhood from my life is parted, My footstep from the moss which drew Its fairy circle round: anew The garden is deserted.

Another thrush may there rehearse The madrigals which sweetest are; No more for me! myself afar Do sing a sadder verse.

Ah me, ah me! when erst I lay In that child's-nest so greenly wrought, I laughed unto myself and thought "The time will pass away."

And still I laughed, and did not fear But that, whene'er was passed away The childish time, some happier play My womanhood would cheer.

I knew the time would pass away, And yet, beside the rose-tree wall, Dear God, how seldom, if at all, Did I look up to pray!

The time is past; and now that grows The cypress high among the trees, And I behold white sepulchres As well as the white rose,—

When graver, meeker thoughts are given, And I have learnt to lift my face, Reminded how earth's greenest place The color draws from heaven,—

It something saith for earthly pain, But more for Heavenly promise free, That I who was, would shrink to be That happy child again.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]



A FORSAKEN GARDEN

In a coign of the cliff between lowland and highland, At the sea-down's edge between windward and lee, Walled round with rocks as an inland island, The ghost of a garden fronts the sea. A girdle of brushwood and thorn encloses The steep square slope of the blossomless bed Where the weeds that grew green from the graves of its roses Now lie dead.

The fields fall southward, abrupt and broken, To the low last edge of the long lone land. If a step should sound or a word be spoken, Would a ghost not rise at the strange guest's hand? So long have the gray, bare walks lain guestless, Through branches and briers if a man make way, He shall find no life but the sea-wind's, restless Night and day.

The dense, hard passage is blind and stifled That crawls by a track none turn to climb To the strait waste place that the years have rifled Of all but the thorns that are touched not of Time. The thorns he spares when the rose is taken; The rocks are left when he wastes the plain. The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, These remain.

Not a flower to be pressed of the foot that falls not; As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are dry; From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale calls not, Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. Over the meadows that blossom and wither Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song; Only the sun and the rain come hither All year long.

The sun burns sere and the rain dishevels One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. Only the wind here hovers and revels In a round where life seems barren as death. Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, Haply, of lovers none ever will know, Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping Years ago.

Heart handfast in heart as they stood, "Look thither," Did he, whisper? "Look forth from the flowers to the sea; For the foam-flowers endure when the rose-blossoms wither, And men that love lightly may die—but we?" And the same wind sang and the same waves whitened, And or ever the garden's last petals were shed, In the lips that had whispered, the eyes that had lightened, Love was dead.

Or they loved their life through, and then went whither? And were one to the end—but what end who knows? Love deep as the sea as a rose must wither, As the rose-red seaweed that mocks the rose. Shall the dead take thought for the dead to love them? What love was ever as deep as a grave? They are loveless now as the grass above them Or the wave.

All are at one now, roses and lovers, Not known of the cliffs and the fields and the sea. Not a breath of the time that has been hovers In the air now soft with a summer to be. Not a breath shall there sweeten the seasons hereafter Of the flowers or the lovers that laugh now or weep, When, as they that are free now of weeping and laughter, We shall sleep.

Here death may deal not again forever; Here change may come not till all change end. From the graves they have made they shall rise up never, Who have left naught living to ravage and rend. Earth, stones, and thorns of the wild ground growing, While the sun and the rain live, these shall be; Till a last wind's breath, upon all these blowing, Roll the sea.

Till the slow sea rise and the sheer cliff crumble, Till terrace and meadow the deep gulfs drink, Till the strength of the waves of the high tides humble The fields that lessen, the rocks that shrink; Here now in his triumph where all things falter, Stretched out on the spoils that his own hand spread, As a god self-slain on his own strange altar, Death lies dead.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]



GREEN THINGS GROWING

O 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.

O 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 moonlight Or 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.