Poems About Trees

There, through bewildered branches, goWinged Loves borne on in gentle strife,Tossing and tossing to and froThe flaming circle of our life.When looking on their shaken hair,And dreaming how they dance and dart,Thine eyes grow full of tender care:Beloved, gaze in thine own heart.Gaze no more in the bitter glassThe demons, with their subtle guile,Lift up before us when they pass,Or only gaze a little while;For there a fatal image grows,With broken boughs, and blackened leaves,And roots half hidden under snowsDriven by a storm that ever grieves.For all things turn to barrennessIn the dim glass the demons hold,The glass of outer weariness,Made when God slept in times of old.There, through the broken branches, goThe ravens of unresting thought;Peering and flying to and fro,To see men’s souls bartered and bought.When they are heard upon the wind,And when they shake their wings; alas!Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

Boughs where the thrush, with crimson breast,Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;We plant, upon the sunny lea,A shadow for the noontide hour,A shelter from the summer shower,When we plant the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?Sweets for a hundred flowery springsTo load the May-winds restless wings,When, from the orchard-row, he poursIts fragrance through our open doors;A world of blossoms for the bee,Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,We plant with the apple-tree.

What plant we in this apple-tree?Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,And redden in the August noon,And drop, when gentle airs come by,That fan the blue September sky,While children come, with cries of glee,And seek them where the fragrant grassBetrays their bed to those who pass,At the foot of the apple-tree.

And when, above this apple-tree,The winter stars are quivering bright,And winds go howling through the night,Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,Shall peel its fruit by cottage-hearth,And guests in prouder homes shall see,Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vineAnd golden orange of the line,The fruit of the apple-tree.

The fruitage of this apple-treeWinds and our flag of stripe and starShall bear to coasts that lie afar,Where men shall wonder at the view,And ask in what fair groves they grew;And sojourners beyond the seaShall think of childhood's careless day,And long, long hours of summer play,In the shade of the apple-tree.

Each year shall give this apple-treeA broader flush of roseate bloom,A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.The years shall come and pass, but weShall hear no longer, where we lie,The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh,In the boughs of the apple-tree.

And time shall waste this apple-tree.Oh, when its aged branches throwThin shadows on the ground below,Shall fraud and force and iron willOppress the weak and helpless still?What shall the tasks of mercy be,Amid the toils, the strifes, the tearsOf those who live when length of yearsIs wasting this little apple-tree?

"Who planted this old apple-tree?"The children of that distant dayThus to some aged man shall say;And, gazing on its mossy stem,The gray-haired man shall answer them:"A poet of the land was he,Born in the rude but good old times;'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes,On planting the apple-tree."

Woodman, forbear thy stroke!Cut not its earth-bound ties;O, spare that aged oak,Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boyI sought its grateful shade;In all their gushing joyHere, 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.

And wild voice pealing up to the sunny sky,And feet like sunny gems on an English green,Maud in the light of her youth and her grace,Singing of Death, and of Honor that cannot die,Till I well could weep for a time so sordid and mean,And myself so languid and base.

Silence, beautiful voice!Be still, for you only trouble the mindWith a joy in which I cannot rejoice,A glory I shall not find.Still! I will hear you no more,For your sweetness hardly leaves me a choiceBut to move to the meadow and fall beforeHer feet on the meadow grass, and adore,Not her, who is neither courtly nor kind,Not her, not her, but a voice.

Vainly the constableShouted and called her;Vainly the fishermanBeat the green alder;Vainly he flung the net,Never it hauled her!

Mother beside the fireSat, her nightcap in;Father, in easy chair,Gloomily napping,When at the window-sillCame a light tapping!

And a pale countenanceLooked through the casement.Loud beat the mother's heart,Sick with amazement,And at the vision whichCame to surprise her,Shrieked in an agony--"Lor'! it's Elizar!"

Yes, 'twas Elizabeth--Yes, 'twas their girl;Pale was her cheek, and herHair out of curl."Mother," the loving one,Blushing exclaimed,"Let not your innocentLizzy be blamed.

"Yesterday, going to AuntJones's to tea,Mother, dear mother, IForgot the door-key!And as the night was coldAnd the way steep,Mrs. Jones kept me toBreakfast and sleep."

Whether her Pa and MaFully believed her,That we shall never know,Stern they received her;And for the work of thatCruel, though short, nightSent her to bed withoutTea for a fortnight.

MORALHey diddle diddlety,Cat and the fiddlety,Maidens of England, take caution by she!Let love and suicideNever tempt you aside,And always remember to take the door-key.

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

Thus, though abroad, perchance, I might appearHarsh 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 beLike the high leaves upon the Holly-tree.

And as, when all the summer trees are seenSo bright and green,The Holly-leaves their fadeless hues displayLess 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 amongThe thoughtless throng;So would I seem, amid the young and gay,More grave than they;That in my age as cheerful I might beAs the green winter of the Holly-tree.

Thrice twenty summers I have seenThe sky grow bright, the forest green;And many a wintry wind have stoodIn bloomless, fruitless solitude,Since childhood in my pleasant bowerFirst spent its sweet and sportive hour;Since youthful lovers in my shadeTheir vows of truth and rapture made,And on my trunk's surviving frameCarved 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!

At evenen down below the wideWoak'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 rovedWi' 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 pleaceTo 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 passedThe 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 meHer 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 hookBe brought to spweil his steately look;Nor ever roun' his ribby zidesMid cattle rub ther heairy hides;Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keepHis 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' vellThe girt woak tree that's in the dell,An' build his planks 'ithin the zideO' 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.

But up in that tree sits a chocolate cat,And a gingerbread dog prowls below--And this is the way you contrive to get atThose sugar-plums tempting you so:

You say but the word to that gingerbread dogAnd he barks with such terrible zestThat the chocolate cat is at once all agog,As her swelling proportions attest.And the chocolate cat goes cavorting aroundFrom this leafy limb unto that,And the sugar-plums tumble, of course, to the ground--Hurrah for that chocolate cat!

There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes,With stripings of scarlet or gold,And you carry away of the treasure that rains,As much as your apron can hold!So come, little child, cuddle closer to meIn your dainty white nightcap and gown,And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum TreeIn the garden of Shut-Eye Town.

Nay--though the rasp of the flesh was so sore, Faith, that had yearnings far keener than these,Saw the soft sheen of the Thitherward Shore Under the shade of the trees;--

Caught the high psalm of ecstatic delight-- Heard the harps harping, like soundings of seas--Watched earth's assoiled ones walking in white Under the shade of the trees.

Oh, was it strange he should pine for release, Touched to the soul with such transports as these,--He who so needed the balsam of peace, Under the shade of the trees?

Yea, it was noblest for him--it was best (Questioning naught of our Father's decrees),There to pass over the river and rest Under the shade of the trees!

Grow! Grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow!

Up, up so airily, To the blue sky,Lift up your leafy tips Stately and high;Clasp tight your tiny cones, Tawny and brown,By and by buffeting Rains will pelt down.By and by bitterly Chill winds will blow, And so, Little evergreens, grow! Grow! Grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow!

Gather all uttermost Beauty, because,--Hark, till I tell it now! How Santa Claus,Out of the northern land, Over the seas,Soon shall come seeking you, Evergreen trees!Seek you with reindeer soon, Over the snow: And so, Little evergreens, grow! Grow! Grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow!

What if the maple flare Flaunting and red,You shall wear waxen white Taper instead.What if now, otherwhere, Birds are beguiled,You shall yet nestle The little Christ-Child.Ah! the strange splendor The fir-trees shall know! And so, Little evergreens, grow! Grow! Grow! Grow, little evergreens, grow!

Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town (From which was London born);Witness hereby the ancientry Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard mould, He breedeth a mighty bow;Alder for shoes do wise men choose, And beech for cups also.But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled, And your shoes are clean outworn,Back ye must speed for all that ye need, To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth Till every gust be laid,To drop a limb on the head of him That anyway trusts her shade:But whether a lad be sober or sad, Or mellow with ale from the horn,He will take no wrong when he lieth along 'Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight, Or he would call it a sin;But--we have been out in the woods all night, A-conjuring Summer in!

And we bring you news by word of mouth-- Good news for cattle and corn--Now is the Sun come up from the South, With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs (All of a Midsummer morn)!England shall bide till Judgment Tide, By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Wi’ swords and guns they wanton there, Wi’ red, red coats and braw, braw plumes.But I gaed wi’ my gowden hair, And O! sae bonny as the bour-tree blooms!

I ran, a little hempie lass,In the sand and the bent grass,Or took and kilted my small coatsTo play in the beached fisher-boats.

I waded deep and I ran fast,I was as lean as a lugger’s mast,I was as brown as a fisher’s creel,And I liked my life unco weel.

They blew a trumpet at the cross,Some forty men, both foot and horse.A’body cam to hear and see,And wha, among the rest, but me.My lips were saut wi’ the saut air,My face was brown, my feet were bareThe wind had ravelled my tautit hair,And I thought shame to be standing there.

Ae man there in the thick of the throngSat in his saddle, straight and strong.I looked at him and he at me,And he was a master-man to see.. . . And who is this yin? and who is yonThat has the bonny lendings on?That sits and looks sae braw and crouse?. . . Mister Frank o’ the Big House!

I gaed my lane beside the sea;The wind it blew in bush and tree,The wind blew in bush and bent:Muckle I saw, and muckle kent!

Between the beach and the sea-hillI sat my lane and grat my fill—I was sae clarty and hard and dark,And like the kye in the cow park!

There fell a battle far in the north;The evil news gaed back and forth,And back and forth by brae and bentHider and hunter cam and went:The hunter clattered horse-shoe-airnBy causey-crest and hill-top cairn;The hider, in by shag and shench,Crept on his wame and little lench.

The eastland wind blew shrill and snell,The stars arose, the gloaming fell,The firelight shone in window and doorWhen Mr. Frank cam here to shore.He hirpled up by the links and the lane,And chappit laigh in the back-door-stane.My faither gaed, and up wi’ his han’!. . . Is this Mr. Frank, or a beggarman?

I have mistrysted sair, he said,But let me into fire and bed;Let me in, for auld lang syne,And give me a dram of the brandy wine.

They hid him in the Bour-Tree Den,And I thought it strange to gang my lane;I thought it strange, I thought it sweet,To gang there on my naked feet.In the mirk night, when the boats were at sea,I passed the burn abune the knee;In the mirk night, when the folks were asleep,I had a tryst in the den to keep.

Late and air’, when the folks were asleep,I had a tryst, a tryst to keep,I had a lad that lippened to me,And bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

O’ the bour-tree leaves I busked his bed,The mune was siller, the dawn was red:Was nae man there but him and me—And bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

Unco weather hae we been through:The mune glowered, and the wind blew,And the rain it rained on him and me,And bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

Dwelling his lane but house or hauld,Aft he was wet and aft was cauld;I warmed him wi’ my briest and knee—And bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

There was nae voice of beast ae man,But the tree soughed and the burn ran,And we heard the ae voice of the sea:Bour-tree blossom is fair to see!

With much to be glad of and much to deplore, Yet, as these days with those we compare,Believe me, my friend, tho’ the sorrows seem more They are somehow more easy to bear.

And thou, faded Future, uncertain and frail, As I cherish thy light in each draught,His lamp is not more to the miner—their sail Is not more to the crew on the raft.For Hope can make feeble ones earnest and brave, And, as forth thro’ the years I look on,Believe me, my friend, between this and the grave, I see wonderful things to be done.

To do or to try; and, believe me, my friend, If the call should come early for me,I can leave these foundations uprooted, and tend For some new city over the sea.To do or to try; and if failure be mine, And if Fortune go cross to my plan,Believe me, my friend, tho’ I mourn the design I shall never lament for the man.

Hearing a great sea of grass Roar towards the stars.

From, them to the human treeRose a cry continually,'Thou art still, our Father, we Fain would have thee nod.Make the skies as blood below thee,Though thou slay us, we shall know thee. Answer us, O God!

'Show thine ancient flame and thunder,Split the stillness once asunder,Lest we whisper, lest we wonder Art thou there at all?'But I saw him there alone,Standing stiller than a stone Lest a moth should fall.

Wraiths of the mist and the snow encumber her canvas and deck,--And the Eskimos swear that a crew out of ghostland are crowding the wreck!

Thus, in the indolent dark of the year, in the city of Nome,They were passing the time as they might, but ever their thoughts turned home.Said the Man from the East, "In God's country now (where we'd all like to be),You may bet your life there's a big boom on for the Christmas Tree;And we'd have one here, but there isn't a shrub as high as my hand,Nor the smell of spruce, for a hundred miles, in all this land!"

Then the Man from the South arose: "I allow, if the Tree could be found,I'd 'tend to the fruit myself, and stand ye a treat all round!""Done!" said the Man from the West (the youngest of all was he)."I'll lose my claim in the ruby sand--or I'll find the Tree!"

The restless Aurora is waving her banners wide through the dome,And the Man from the West is off, while yet they are sleeping in Nome!Off, ere the low-browed dawn, with Eskimo, sledge, and team:He is leaving the tundra behind, he is climbing the source of the stream!On, beyond Sinrock--on, while the miles and the dim hours glide--On, toward the evergreen belt that darkens the mountain side!'Tis a hundred miles or more; but his team is strong, is swift,And brief are his slumbers at night, in the lee of the feathery drift!

There were watchful eyes, there were anxious hearts in the city of Nome;And they cheered with a will when the Man from the West with his prize came home!And they cheered again for the Christmas Tree that was brought from far,Chained to his sledge, like a king of old to the conqueror's car!

Said the Man from the South, "I'll 'tend to the fruit that grows on the Tree!"Said the Man from the East, "Leave the Christmas dinner and trimmings to me!"