 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
62
A PINE TREE.
A handful of moss from the woodside,
Dappled with gold and brown,
I borrowed, to gladden my chamber
In the heart of the dusty town;
And here, in the flickering shadows
Traced by my window-vine,
It has nursed into life and freshness
The germ of a giant pine.
Dappled with gold and brown,
I borrowed, to gladden my chamber
In the heart of the dusty town;
And here, in the flickering shadows
Traced by my window-vine,
It has nursed into life and freshness
The germ of a giant pine.
I turn from the cool-bosomed lilies
Dewy the whole day through—
From the flaunting torches of tulips
Flame-like in form and hue—
From the gorgeous geraniums' glory,
From the trellis where roses twine,
To welcome this sturdy stranger,
This poor little alien pine.
Dewy the whole day through—
From the flaunting torches of tulips
Flame-like in form and hue—
From the gorgeous geraniums' glory,
From the trellis where roses twine,
To welcome this sturdy stranger,
This poor little alien pine.
Out of this feeble seedling
What wonders the years may bring!
Its stem may defy the tempest,
Its limbs in the whirlwind sing—
For age, which to men comes laden
With weakness and sure decline,
Will add only growth and beauty
And strength to this tiny pine.
What wonders the years may bring!
63
Its limbs in the whirlwind sing—
For age, which to men comes laden
With weakness and sure decline,
Will add only growth and beauty
And strength to this tiny pine.
Hark! is it an airy fancy?
The roar of its storm-wrung limbs,
Then the sigh of its tender tassels
To the twilight zephyr-hymns;
The rain on its thick soft greenness,
When the spring skies weep and shine—
O, many and mighty the voices
Haunting this tiny pine!
The roar of its storm-wrung limbs,
Then the sigh of its tender tassels
To the twilight zephyr-hymns;
The rain on its thick soft greenness,
When the spring skies weep and shine—
O, many and mighty the voices
Haunting this tiny pine!
Shops, and the jar of machinery,
Mills, and the shudder of wheels—
Wharves, and the bustle of commerce,
Ships, and the rushing of keels—
Towns, and the hurry of living,
The murmur which none may define,
I hear and see as I listen
Watching this tiny pine.
Mills, and the shudder of wheels—
Wharves, and the bustle of commerce,
Ships, and the rushing of keels—
Towns, and the hurry of living,
The murmur which none may define,
I hear and see as I listen
Watching this tiny pine.
I will take it again to the woodside,
That safe with its kindred there,
Its evergreen arms may broaden
Yearly more strong and fair;
And long after weeds and brambles
Grow over this head of mine,
The wild-birds will build and warble
In the boughs of my grateful pine.
That safe with its kindred there,
64
Yearly more strong and fair;
And long after weeds and brambles
Grow over this head of mine,
The wild-birds will build and warble
In the boughs of my grateful pine.
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