 | The British Months |  |
170
Trees later in foliage. Oak, Ash, Abele, Poplar, Walnut, Plane, Mulberry
And they that watch'd with cautious glance
The settled season's slow advance,
Afraid, amid the sunshine fair,
Of lurking frost's pernicious air,
No longer fail they to obey
The summons of more genial May.
The Oak, his leaves not wholly spread,
And tipt with tints of tawny red;
The Ash, with wings of leafits green
Fresh from the dark bud's sable skreen;
With leaves, their lightsome hue that steal
From Flora's realm, the white Abele;
With sickly hue of pining grief,
The Poplar's green and yellow leaf;
In verdure deep the Walnut died;
The Plane's umbrageous shelter wide;
And last its foliage to unfold,
Sure sign to rural wisdom old,
That the chill breath of mornings frore
Shall nip the tender shoot no more,
The Mulberry yields so dark and dense
'Gainst summer suns its deepening fence,
That scarce a ray can glide between
The meshes of that dark-leav'd skreen.
The settled season's slow advance,
Afraid, amid the sunshine fair,
Of lurking frost's pernicious air,
No longer fail they to obey
The summons of more genial May.
The Oak, his leaves not wholly spread,
And tipt with tints of tawny red;
The Ash, with wings of leafits green
Fresh from the dark bud's sable skreen;
With leaves, their lightsome hue that steal
From Flora's realm, the white Abele;
With sickly hue of pining grief,
The Poplar's green and yellow leaf;
In verdure deep the Walnut died;
The Plane's umbrageous shelter wide;
And last its foliage to unfold,
Sure sign to rural wisdom old,
That the chill breath of mornings frore
Shall nip the tender shoot no more,
The Mulberry yields so dark and dense
'Gainst summer suns its deepening fence,
That scarce a ray can glide between
The meshes of that dark-leav'd skreen.
And many a bright and chalic'd flower
Is blooming 'mid the leafy bower
Of those tall brethren of the wood:
Tho' oft beneath the o'erarching hood
Of close-wove boughs they lurking lie,
Scarce notic'd by the careless eye.
Is blooming 'mid the leafy bower
Of those tall brethren of the wood:
Tho' oft beneath the o'erarching hood
Of close-wove boughs they lurking lie,
Scarce notic'd by the careless eye.
| The British Months | |