PoetryPage2

"Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir."

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's 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.

"See you our stilly woods of oak,
And the dread ditch beside?
O that was where the Saxons broke,
On the day that Harold died."

Of all the trees that grow so fair,
    Old England to adorn,
Greater is none beneath the sun,
    Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs,
    (All of a Midsummer morn!)
Surely we sing of no little thing,
    In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oak of the Clay lived many a day,
    Or ever Aeneas began.
Ash of the Loam was a Lady at home,
    When Brut was an outlaw man.
Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town
    (From which was London born);
Witness hereby the ancientry
    Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard-mould,
    He breedeth a mighty bow.
Alder for shoes do wise men choose,
    And beech for cups also.
But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,
    And your shoes are clean outworn,
Back ye must speed for all that ye need,
    To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth
    Till every gust be laid,
To drop a limb on the head of him
    That any way trusts her shade.
But whether a lad be sober or sad,
    Or mellow with wine from the horn,
He will take no wrong when he lieth along
    'Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oh, do not tell the priest our plight,
    Or he would call it a sin;
But--we have been out in the woods all night,
    A-conjuring Summer in!
And we bring you good news by word of mouth --
    Good news for cattle and corn --
Now is the Sun come up from the south,
    With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs
    (All of a Midsummer morn)!
England shall bide till Judgement Tide,
    By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

"The apple blossom's shower of pearl
Though blent with rosier hue,
As beautiful as a woman's blush-
as evanescent too.

Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree,
What the glory of thy boughs shall be?

“The trees are coming into leaf
like something almost being said;
the recent buds relax and spread,
their greenness like a kind of grief.”

And what a charm is in the rich hot scent
Of old fir forests heated by the sun,
Where drops of resin down the rough bark run,
And needle litter breathes its wonderment.

The old fir forests heated by the sun,
Their thought shall linger like the lingering scent,
Their beauty haunts us, and a wonderment
Of moss, of fern, of cones, of rills that run.

The needle litter breathes a wonderment;
The crimson crans are sparkling in the sun;
From tree to tree the scampering squirrels run;
The hum of insects blends with heat and scent.

The drops of resin down the rough bark run;
And ripe, ever riper grows the scent;
But eve has come, to end the wonderment,
And slowly up the tree trunk climbs the sun."

"The firs are ranged in endless dark battalions
On mountain-side and valley, line on line,
Waiting the winds, that on their viewless stallions
And bearing down, at Winter's sudden sign.
The mighty trees are grappling to the rock
With every root, preparing for the shock
Of that wild cavalry, and seem to hearken
Silent and sturdy, as the grey clouds darken,
For the first howl of war."

"And now the fir tree ....
Acclaimed by eager, blue-eyed girls and boys,
Bursts into tinsel fruit and glittering toys,
And turns into a pyramid of light."

"I love to lie, when lulling breezes stir
The spiry cones that tremble on the fir."

I lean against a birch-tree,
My arms around it twine,
It pulses, and leaps, and quivers,
Like a human heart to mine.

When my baby looks at trees he sees
the wind’s shape;
his face becomes still
as the branches sway and dip
for his delight, as the bright
sky dances through. He stares,
his nose twitches at leaf
and resin, sour bark, sweet earth,
the juices in the wood.

If he could climb trees
he’d be out of my arms and up
in the creaking heights
laughing among the leaves;
and his white hands move jerkily
trying to touch. What he sees
is the glow of the sap as it spreads
out and upwards, the shine
of the tree’s breath.

His eyes widen and darken
and lighten to green;
a smile brushes his mouth
and cheek, and a look
passes light between him and the tree.
He is close in my arms, but apart.
when we turn to go
his skin smells of forests, he holds
his face to the wind.

"Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
The arch beneath them is not built with stones,
Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;
No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,
No sepulchre conceals a martyr's bones,
No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves,
Gives back in softened echo to thy tread!
Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds,
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
Are singing! Listen, ere the sound be fled,
And learn there may be worship without words.

"Sweet is the air with the budding haws, and the valley stretching for miles below
Is white with blossoming cherries, as if just covered with lightest snow."

"And the great elms o'erhead
Dark shadows wove on their aerial looms
Shot through with golden thread."

"Of all the trees in England,
Past frankincense and myrrh,
There's none for smell, of bloom and smoke,
Like Lime and Juniper."

"Under the pure skies of April blue I stood,
Where, in wild beauty, cherries were in blow;
And, as sweet fancy willed, see there I could
Boughs thick with blossom, or inch-deep in snow."

No white nor red was ever seen
So am'rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas, they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! where s'e'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

"When we have run our passion's heat
Love hither makes his best retreat;
The gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still a tree did end their race;
Apollo hunted Daphne so
Only that she might laurel grow;
And Pan did after Syrinx speed
Not as a nymph, but for a reed."

"Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name:
Little, alas, they know or heed
How far these beauties hers exceed!
Fair trees! wheres'e'er your bark I wound,
No name shall but your own be found."

The last time I walked to the oldest tree
in the forest, bluebells made a sky
of the grass. Today the forest is stripped
down to moss and hart's tongue ferns,
the path a slow stream of rotting leaves
and mud. I want to introduce you
to this tree, but maybe I should wait
for the Spring - or at least
until you bring a pair of boots.

Its bulk weights the clearing
with an ancient stillness, as usual
I am moved by this Saturn of the forest
I lay my cheek against it,
think how the soft sponge of moss
on its trunk would cool the skin
on my back, if you pressed me
into its curves, how I could fit
against the body of the tree,
lose my breath
between the both of you.

I have no thick skin, my love,
no extra layers of protection
like the seals in Ballyness,
that appear to remain in one place
without any effort, although tide and river
race out to an icy Atlantic. They bob
and wait for the sandbank to surface,
where they can rest.

No tough hide to keep out
the whip-sting of sand grains
that are blown along the shore.
You can watch your breath
mist right through me, see
your every movement reflected
on the iridescent film that passes
for my skin. Seas flow from me
and over me.

When it all becomes too much,
the hills can bear it for me. I will
change colour with them, shelter
in the woods at their feet. Let the ends
of my hair twist with ivy, bind me
to tree and stone, feel leaves uncurl
between my fingers and their shadows
flicker across me.

I shall wait here beside Clonmass and Ballyness,
and hope that when you come looking,
you will be able to find me.

"Cedar, and pine, and fir, and branching palm,
A sylvan scene, and as the ranks ascend
Shade above shade, a woody theatre
Of stateliest view."

They led the Vine
To wed her Elm; she, spoused, about him twines
Her marriageable arms, and with her brings
Her dower, the adopted clusters, to adorn
His barren leaves.

So counsel'd he, and both together went
Into the thickest wood; there soon they chose
The fig-tree. Not that kind for fruit renown'd,
But such as this day to Indians known
In Malabar or Decan spreads her arms
Branching so broad and long, that in the ground
The bended twigs take root, a daughters grow
About the mother-tree, a pillar'd shade
High overarched, and echoing walks between.

"And the wind, full of wantonness, wooes like a lover
The young aspen-trees till they tremble all over."

I think that I shall never see
A billboard lovely as a tree.
Indeed, unless the billboard fall,
I will never see a tree at all.

The chestnut's proud, and the lilac's pretty,
The poplar's gentle and tall,
But the plane tree's kind to the poor dull city -
I love him best of all.

"Sweet lime so hushedly at the height of noon
Diffusing dizzy fragrance from your boughs,
Tasseled with blossoms more innumerable
Than the black bees, the uproar of whose toil
Fills your green vaults, winning such metheglin
As clouds their sappy cells, sistil, as once
Ye used, your sunniest emanations ....
..... Scatter your fumes, O lime,
Loose from each hispid star of citron bloom,
Tangled beneath the labyrinthine boughs,
Cloud on such stinging cloud of exhaltation
As reeks of youth, fierce life, and summer's prime."

on a white cloud
the blue surrenders to the hill
the trees beckon the rain
an ancient sound was heard
and I turned to see
rushing life move towards me

"The cherry-trees are seas of bloom and soft perfume and sweet perfume,
The cherry-trees are seas of bloom (and oh, so near to London!);
And there, they say, when dawn is high and all the world's a blaze of sky,
The cuckoo, though he's very shy, will sing a song for London."

When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

"In all a pushing, a thrusting,
An irregular twisting, a breaking-out at corners,
Lopsidedness. Daggers on a twig
Burst out and there is a leaf."

"White of the blackthorn
That the March winds toss,
Where the sunlight falls
On laughing petals,

Dancing whiteness
On the stiff branches,
Dear as the first thought
Of love to come.

In towering splendor once I stood
A regal monarch of the wood,
My branches once reached to the sky
See me now but do not cry.
The Creator's work has yet to cease
I've become a shelter for bird and beast,
And when at last I fall to the Earth
The life I leave will inspire new birth;
A seedling springs forth from the ground
Nature's cycle goes round and round.

Yew and Me, Have a common ancestry,
Of the earth, Mother to us both,
Living and breathing, exhaling my breath,
Yet Yew live much longer,
Some say immortal, no death,
For I, just a few short years,
In which to enrich and enjoy,
Partaking your wisdom and beauty,
Your twists and your turns, the altar
Of your girth, ever expanding,
Your branches falling, rejoining the earth,
Fulfilling your destiny, and spiritual re-birth.
How will I honour Yew? My brothers and sisters,
When my relatives destroy, and couldn’t careless,
Whether you live or die, or if you are in distress,
Are my thoughts and concerns, insignificant raindrops?
In a cloudburst of effluence, mindless destructive concepts,
Market economies, and a race of takers not leavers,
Religious in name only, working like beavers,
To destroy ancient sunlight, like cancer the liver,
I ask myself why, we all know what’s happening,
Mother earth cries out in her suffering, echoed by Yew
Dear God who is really, really listening.

They seed so effortlessy
Tasting the winds, that are footless
Waist-deep in history.”

I stood still and was a tree amid the wood,
Knowing the truth of things unseen before;
Of Daphne and the laurel bow
And that god-feasting couple old
that grew elm-oak amid the wold.
'Twas not until the gods had been
Kindly entreated, and been brought within
Unto the hearth of their heart's home
That they might do this wonder thing;
Nathless I have been a tree amid the wood
And many a new thing understood
That was rank folly to my head before.

Poetry H - P

A Tree Song