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Best Famous Tree Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Tree poems. This is a select list of the best famous Tree poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Tree poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of tree poems.

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by Edward Estlin (E E) Cummings | |

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)  


by Edgar Lee Masters | |

Doc Hill

I went up and down the streets
Here and there by day and night,
Through all hours of the night caring for the poor who were sick.
Do you know why? My wife hated me, my son went to the dogs.
And I turned to the people and poured out my love to them.
Sweet it was to see the crowds about the lawns on the day of my funeral, And hear them murmur their love and sorrow.
But oh, dear God, my soul trembled, scarcely able To hold to the railing of the new life When I saw Em Stanton behind the oak tree At the grave, Hiding herself, and her grief!


by Edgar Allan Poe | |

The One in Paradise

THOU wast that all to me love 
For which my soul did pine --
A green isle in the sea love 
A fountain and a shrine 
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers 
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah dream too bright to last! Ah starry Hope! that didst arise But to be overcast! A voice from out the Future cries "On! on!" -- but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute motionless aghast! For alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er! No more -- no more -- no more -- (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the shore) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree Or the stricken eagle soar! And all my days are trances And all my nightly dreams Are where thy grey eye glances And where thy footstep gleams -- In what ethereal dances By what eternal streams.


by Conrad Aiken | |

Chance Meetings

In the mazes of loitering people, the watchful and furtive, 
The shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves, 
In the drowse of the sunlight, among the low voices, 
I suddenly face you, 
  
Your dark eyes return for a space from her who is with you, 
They shine into mine with a sunlit desire, 
They say an 'I love you, what star do you live on?' 
They smile and then darken, 
  
And silent, I answer 'You too--I have known you,--I love you!--' 
And the shadows of tree-trunks and shadows of leaves 
Interlace with low voices and footsteps and sunlight 
To divide us forever.


by William Blake | |

A Poison Tree

I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow.
And I waterd it in fears, Night and morning with my tears: And I sunned it with smiles, And with soft deceitful wiles.
And it grew both day and night, Till it bore an apple bright.
And my foe beheld it shine, And he knew that it was mine.
And into my garden stole.
When the night had veiled the pole; In the morning glad I see, My foe outstretchd beneath the tree.


by Edgar Allan Poe | |

Sonnet -- To Science

Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart Vulture whose wings are dull realities? How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing? Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car? And driven the Hamadryad from the wood To seek a shelter in some happier star? Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood The Elfin from the green grass and from me The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?


by Emily Dickinson | |

A light exists in spring

A light exists in spring
   Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here A color stands abroad On solitary hills That science cannot overtake, But human nature feels.
It waits upon the lawn; It shows the furthest tree Upon the furthest slope we know; It almost speaks to me.
Then, as horizons step, Or noons report away, Without the formula of sound, It passes, and we stay: A quality of loss Affecting our content, As trade had suddenly encroached Upon a sacrament.


by Emily Dickinson | |

Before you thought of spring

Before you thought of spring,
Except as a surmise,
You see, God bless his suddenness,
A fellow in the skies
Of independent hues,
A little weather-worn,
Inspiriting habiliments
Of indigo and brown.
With specimens of song, As if for you to choose, Discretion in the interval, With gay delays he goes To some superior tree Without a single leaf, And shouts for joy to nobody But his seraphic self!


by Katherine Mansfield | |

Camomile Tea

Outside the sky is light with stars; 
There's a hollow roaring from the sea.
And, alas! for the little almond flowers, The wind is shaking the almond tree.
How little I thought, a year ago, In the horrible cottage upon the Lee That he and I should be sitting so And sipping a cup of camomile tea.
Light as feathers the witches fly, The horn of the moon is plain to see; By a firefly under a jonquil flower A goblin toasts a bumble-bee.
We might be fifty, we might be five, So snug, so compact, so wise are we! Under the kitchen-table leg My knee is pressing against his knee.
Our shutters are shut, the fire is low, The tap is dripping peacefully; The saucepan shadows on the wall Are black and round and plain to see.


by Emily Dickinson | |

Heaven is what I cannot reach!

Heaven is what I cannot reach!
   The apple on the tree,
Provided it do hopeless hang,
   That "heaven" is, to me.
The color on the cruising cloud, The interdicted ground Behind the hill, the house behind, -- There Paradise is found!


by John Keats | |

Stanzas

IN a drear-nighted December  
Too happy happy tree  
Thy branches ne'er remember 
Their green felicity: 
The north cannot undo them 5 
With a sleety whistle through them; 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime.
In a drear-nighted December Too happy happy brook 10 Thy bubblings ne'er remember Apollo's summer look; But with a sweet forgetting They stay their crystal fretting Never never petting 15 About the frozen time.
Ah! would 'twere so with many A gentle girl and boy! But were there ever any Writhed not at pass¨¨d joy? 20 To know the change and feel it When there is none to heal it Nor numb¨¨d sense to steal it Was never said in rhyme.


by Elizabeth Barrett Browning | |

Sonnets from the Portuguese ii

UNLIKE are we unlike O princely Heart! 
Unlike our uses and our destinies.
Our ministering two angels look surprise On one another as they strike athwart Their wings in passing.
Thou bethink thee art 5 A guest for queens to social pageantries With gages from a hundred brighter eyes Than tears even can make mine to play thy part Of chief musician.
What hast thou to do With looking from the lattice-lights at me¡ª 10 A poor tired wandering singer singing through The dark and leaning up a cypress tree? The chrism is on thine head¡ªon mine the dew¡ª And Death must dig the level where these agree.


by Philip Larkin | |

Love Again

 Love again: wanking at ten past three
(Surely he's taken her home by now?),
The bedroom hot as a bakery,
The drink gone dead, without showing how
To meet tomorrow, and afterwards,
And the usual pain, like dysentery.
Someone else feeling her breasts and cunt, Someone else drowned in that lash-wide stare, And me supposed to be ignorant, Or find it funny, or not to care, Even .
.
.
but why put it into words? Isolate rather this element That spreads through other lives like a tree And sways them on in a sort of sense And say why it never worked for me.
Something to do with violence A long way back, and wrong rewards, And arrogant eternity.


by Philip Larkin | |

Love Songs In Age

 She kept her songs, they kept so little space, 
 The covers pleased her: 
One bleached from lying in a sunny place, 
One marked in circles by a vase of water, 
One mended, when a tidy fit had seized her, 
 And coloured, by her daughter - 
So they had waited, till, in widowhood 
She found them, looking for something else, and stood 

Relearning how each frank submissive chord 
 Had ushered in 
Word after sprawling hyphenated word, 
And the unfailing sense of being young 
Spread out like a spring-woken tree, wherein 
 That hidden freshness sung, 
That certainty of time laid up in store 
As when she played them first.
But, even more, The glare of that much-mentionned brilliance, love, Broke out, to show Its bright incipience sailing above, Still promising to solve, and satisfy, And set unchangeably in order.
So To pile them back, to cry, Was hard, without lamely admitting how It had not done so then, and could not now.


by Philip Larkin | |

Going

 There is an evening coming in
Across the fields, one never seen before,
That lights no lamps.
Silken it seems at a distance, yet When it is drawn up over the knees and breast It brings no comfort.
Where has the tree gone, that locked Earth to sky? What is under my hands, That I cannot feel? What loads my hand down?


by Philip Larkin | |

Homage To A Government

 Next year we are to bring all the soldiers home
For lack of money, and it is all right.
Places they guarded, or kept orderly, We want the money for ourselves at home Instead of working.
And this is all right.
It's hard to say who wanted it to happen, But now it's been decided nobody minds.
The places are a long way off, not here, Which is all right, and from what we hear The soldiers there only made trouble happen.
Next year we shall be easier in our minds.
Next year we shall be living in a country That brought its soldiers home for lack of money.
The statues will be standing in the same Tree-muffled squares, and look nearly the same.
Our children will not know it's a different country.
All we can hope to leave them now is money.


by Christina Rossetti | |

A Birthday

 My heart is like a singing bird
Whose nest is in a water'd shoot;
My heart is like an apple-tree
Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;
My heart is like a rainbow shell
That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these
Because my love is come to me.
Raise me a dais of silk and down; Hang it with vair and purple dyes; Carve it in doves and pomegranates, And peacocks with a hundred eyes; Work it in gold and silver grapes, In leaves and silver fleurs-de-lys; Because the birthday of my life Is come, my love is come to me.


by Christina Rossetti | |

When I am dead my dearest

 When I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows, I shall not feel the rain; I shall not hear the nightingale Sing on, as if in pain: And dreaming through the twilight That doth not rise nor set, Haply I may remember, And haply may forget.


by Christina Rossetti | |

The First Day

 I wish I could remember the first day,
First hour, first moment of your meeting me;
If bright or dim the season, it might be
Summer or winter for aught I can say.
So unrecorded did it slip away, So blind was I to see and to foresee, So dull to mark the budding of my tree That would not blossom yet for many a May.
If only I could recollect it! Such A day of days! I let it come and go As traceless as a thaw of bygone snow.
It seemed to mean so little, meant so much! If only now I could recall that touch, First touch of hand in hand! - Did one but know!


by Christina Rossetti | |

Mirage

 The hope I dreamed of was a dream,
Was but a dream; and now I wake,
Exceeding comfortless, and worn, and old,
For a dream's sake.
I hang my harp upon a tree, A weeping willow in a lake; I hang my silent harp there, wrung and snapped For a dream's sake.
Lie still, lie still, my breaking heart; My silent heart, lie still and break: Life, and the world, and mine own self, are changed For a dream's sake.