 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
181
THE PINE.
Alone, without a friend or foe,
Upon the rugged cliff I stand
And see the valley far below
Its social world of trees expand;
A hermit pine I muse above,
And dream and wait for her I love,
For her, the fanciful and free
That brings my purest joy to me.
Upon the rugged cliff I stand
And see the valley far below
Its social world of trees expand;
A hermit pine I muse above,
And dream and wait for her I love,
For her, the fanciful and free
That brings my purest joy to me.
Oft dancing from the laughing sea
When morning blazes on my crest,
All wild with life and gayety
She springs to me with panting breast.
Her sun-spun ringlets loosely blown,
And eyes that seem the dawn to own,
She greets me with impetuous air
And shakes the dew-drops from my hair.
When morning blazes on my crest,
All wild with life and gayety
She springs to me with panting breast.
Her sun-spun ringlets loosely blown,
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She greets me with impetuous air
And shakes the dew-drops from my hair.
At midnight as I stand asleep,
While constellations stream above,
I hear her up the mountain creep
With sighs and whispers full of love:
There in my arms she gently lies,
And breathes mysterious melodies,
And with her childlike winning ways
Among my leaves and branches plays.
While constellations stream above,
I hear her up the mountain creep
With sighs and whispers full of love:
There in my arms she gently lies,
And breathes mysterious melodies,
And with her childlike winning ways
Among my leaves and branches plays.
Heaped in the winter's snowy shroud,
With icy fingers to each limb,
Or drenched by summer's thunder-cloud,
Of her, and her alone, I dream;
And where the trees are bending low,
And the broad lake with crispèd flow,
Darkens its face despite the sun,
I watch her through the valley run.
With icy fingers to each limb,
Or drenched by summer's thunder-cloud,
Of her, and her alone, I dream;
And where the trees are bending low,
And the broad lake with crispèd flow,
Darkens its face despite the sun,
I watch her through the valley run.
183
Sometimes when parched in summer noon,
She brings me odors from the east,
And draws a cloud before the sun
And fans me into peaceful rest.
In my siesta while I drowse
She rustling slips amid my boughs,
And teases me, the while that I
In dreamy whispers make reply.
She brings me odors from the east,
And draws a cloud before the sun
And fans me into peaceful rest.
In my siesta while I drowse
She rustling slips amid my boughs,
And teases me, the while that I
In dreamy whispers make reply.
Sometimes as if in fierce despair,
The tears of passion on her face,
With tempest locks and angry air
She round me flings her wild embrace,
And sobs, and moans, and madly storms,
And struggles in my aching arms
Until the wild convulsion past
She falls away to sleep at last.
The tears of passion on her face,
With tempest locks and angry air
She round me flings her wild embrace,
And sobs, and moans, and madly storms,
And struggles in my aching arms
Until the wild convulsion past
She falls away to sleep at last.
And if my fate at length ordain
This fallen trunk of mine to bear
Some stately vessel o'er the main,
I know she'll not forget me there.
And oft the sailor mid the gale,
Above my corse shall hear her wail
And sob with tears of agony,
Far out on the Atlantic sea.
This fallen trunk of mine to bear
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I know she'll not forget me there.
And oft the sailor mid the gale,
Above my corse shall hear her wail
And sob with tears of agony,
Far out on the Atlantic sea.
| Poems by William W. Story | |