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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]

The Holly-Tree

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

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;

1407

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.

"Woodman, Spare That Tree"

Green pine, unchanging as the days go by,
Thou art thyself beneath whatever sky:

1409

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 agèd 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.

1410

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 rapturę 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]

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