 | The white dove, and Other Poems for Children |  |
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The Weeping Willow.
Green droops the Weeping Willow,
In the early days of spring,
When the crimson-budded maples
Are bright and blossoming.
In the early days of spring,
When the crimson-budded maples
Are bright and blossoming.
When the bare forest branches
Give no shelter to the bird,
Whose twittering notes of wooing
Seem to make the silence heard.
Give no shelter to the bird,
Whose twittering notes of wooing
Seem to make the silence heard.
When the wind-flower and the violet
Salute you as you pass;
Lifting their starry faces
From the green and slender grass.
Salute you as you pass;
Lifting their starry faces
From the green and slender grass.
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When in all sheltered places,
Where the ground is moist and low,
Tall ferns, and dark-stem'd maidenhair,
And velvet mosses grow.
Where the ground is moist and low,
Tall ferns, and dark-stem'd maidenhair,
And velvet mosses grow.
And o'er the pools and glancing streams
The sulphur butterfly,
With wings like gleams of sunshine,
Sails undulating by.
The sulphur butterfly,
With wings like gleams of sunshine,
Sails undulating by.
Oh it is passing pleasant,
In the early spring to see
The green and flexile branches
Of the weeping willow tree!
In the early spring to see
The green and flexile branches
Of the weeping willow tree!
In the long bright days of summer,
When the corn is green and tall,
How cool and deep the shadows
Of the weeping willow fall.
When the corn is green and tall,
How cool and deep the shadows
Of the weeping willow fall.
Low bending, over arching,
The sky and earth between;
Filling the bright air round us
With light of softest green—
The sky and earth between;
Filling the bright air round us
With light of softest green—
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With an ever-waving motion,
In each slender leavéd stem;
Which when there are no breezes,
Reminds us yet of them.
In each slender leavéd stem;
Which when there are no breezes,
Reminds us yet of them.
And the book we thought to read from,
In our hands relaxéd hold,
Keeps well within its pages
The legend fine and old.
In our hands relaxéd hold,
Keeps well within its pages
The legend fine and old.
And the eyes we love to gaze in,
Have a dreamy sweetness hid,
Beneath the quiet falling
Of the fringed and drooping lid.
Have a dreamy sweetness hid,
Beneath the quiet falling
Of the fringed and drooping lid.
And the voice which is our music,
Hath a softly measured tone,
By the deep repose of noontide
O'er its tender cadence thrown.
Hath a softly measured tone,
By the deep repose of noontide
O'er its tender cadence thrown.
Thro' all the days of summer,
No larger leavéd tree
Can match the weeping willow,
With its branches waving free.
No larger leavéd tree
Can match the weeping willow,
With its branches waving free.
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It fringes the wild brook side—
Hangs o'er the river wave—
It shelters many a cottage door—
Droops over many a grave!
Hangs o'er the river wave—
It shelters many a cottage door—
Droops over many a grave!
Children, that know no other trees,
To call them by their names,
Know well the pleasant willow tree,
Which shades their merry games.
To call them by their names,
Know well the pleasant willow tree,
Which shades their merry games.
Ah yes—thro' all the summer,
'Tis a pleasant sight to see
The long green waving branches
Of the weeping willow tree.
'Tis a pleasant sight to see
The long green waving branches
Of the weeping willow tree.
When the calm autumn weather,
Ripens the fields of maize;
When air seems almost sunshine,
And light is golden haze;
Ripens the fields of maize;
When air seems almost sunshine,
And light is golden haze;
When grass is mown and gathered,
And wheat is bound in sheaves,
And forest paths are sheltered
By rainbow-colored leaves;
And wheat is bound in sheaves,
And forest paths are sheltered
By rainbow-colored leaves;
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When the latest fruit is ripened,
Tho' it still hangs on the tree;
Oh, still the weeping willow
Is a pleasant sight to see!
Tho' it still hangs on the tree;
Oh, still the weeping willow
Is a pleasant sight to see!
The maples red as sunset clouds
The forest outskirts fringe;
The beech no longer seems a beech,
With leaves of yellow tinge:
The forest outskirts fringe;
The beech no longer seems a beech,
With leaves of yellow tinge:
The rich, dark-green leaves of the oak
Are shaded into brown;
And kingly stands the mountain ash
Beneath its golden crown.
Are shaded into brown;
And kingly stands the mountain ash
Beneath its golden crown.
As if the sun instead of sap,
Went branching thro' their veins,
And tinged them with the varied light
Of old cathedral panes:
Went branching thro' their veins,
And tinged them with the varied light
Of old cathedral panes:
Rich orange hues, and paly gold,
And myriad shades of green,
And ruddy, ruby-tinted brown,
With umber shades between;—
And myriad shades of green,
And ruddy, ruby-tinted brown,
With umber shades between;—
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No words can name their gorgeous dyes—
But ever waving free,
As green, as fresh, as in the spring,
Survives the willow tree.
But ever waving free,
As green, as fresh, as in the spring,
Survives the willow tree.
No changing leaf—no withered stem—
No symptom of decay;
September winds toss boughs as green
As did the breath of May.
No symptom of decay;
September winds toss boughs as green
As did the breath of May.
Still bends that fair branch downwards,
The soft green turf unto;
Where the orchard oriole built its nest
And sang the summer thro'.
The soft green turf unto;
Where the orchard oriole built its nest
And sang the summer thro'.
The bee-hive standeth by it,
As it stood all summer long;
And the golden bees are murmuring
Their never-ceasing song.
As it stood all summer long;
And the golden bees are murmuring
Their never-ceasing song.
My lay is done and ended;
I could not choose but sing
The last tree green in autumn,
The first tree green in spring!
I could not choose but sing
The last tree green in autumn,
The first tree green in spring!
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