Best Famous Beeches Poems

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Written by Nazim Hikmet | Things I Didnt Know I Loved it's 1962 March 28th I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train night is falling I never knew I liked night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain I don't like comparing nightfall to a tired bird I didn't know I loved the earth can someone who hasn't worked the earth love it I've never worked the earth it must be my only Platonic love and here I've loved rivers all this time whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills European hills crowned with chateaus or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see I know you can't wash in the same river even once I know the river will bring new lights you'll never see I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as a crow I know this has troubled people before and will trouble those after me I know all this has been said a thousand times before and will be said after me I didn't know I loved the sky cloudy or clear the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish I hear voices not from the blue vault but from the yard the guards are beating someone again I didn't know I loved trees bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino they come upon me in winter noble and modest beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish "the poplars of Izmir losing their leaves. . . they call me The Knife. . . lover like a young tree. . . I blow stately mansions sky-high" in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief to a pine bough for luck I never knew I loved roads even the asphalt kind Vera's behind the wheel we're driving from Moscow to the Crimea Koktebele formerly "Goktepé ili" in Turkish the two of us inside a closed box the world flows past on both sides distant and mute I was never so close to anyone in my life bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé when I was eighteen apart from my life I didn't have anything in the wagon they could take and at eighteen our lives are what we value least I've written this somewhere before wading through a dark muddy street I'm going to the shadow play Ramazan night a paper lantern leading the way maybe nothing like this ever happened maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy going to the shadow play Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather's hand his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat with a sable collar over his robe and there's a lantern in the servant's hand and I can't contain myself for joy flowers come to mind for some reason poppies cactuses jonquils in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika fresh almonds on her breath I was seventeen my heart on a swing touched the sky I didn't know I loved flowers friends sent me three red carnations in prison I just remembered the stars I love them too whether I'm floored watching them from below or whether I'm flying at their side I have some questions for the cosmonauts were the stars much bigger did they look like huge jewels on black velvet or apricots on orange did you feel proud to get closer to the stars I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don't be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to say they were terribly figurative and concrete my heart was in my mouth looking at them they are our endless desire to grasp things seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad I never knew I loved the cosmos snow flashes in front of my eyes both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind I didn't know I liked snow I never knew I loved the sun even when setting cherry-red as now in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors but you aren't about to paint it that way I didn't know I loved the sea except the Sea of Azov or how much I didn't know I loved clouds whether I'm under or up above them whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois strikes me I like it I didn't know I liked rain whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop and takes off for uncharted countries I didn't know I loved rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train is it because I lit my sixth cigarette one alone could kill me is it because I'm half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue the train plunges on through the pitch-black night I never knew I liked the night pitch-black sparks fly from the engine I didn't know I loved sparks I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return 19 April 1962 Moscow

Written by Anthony Hecht | The Transparent Man I'm mighty glad to see you, Mrs. Curtis, And thank you very kindly for this visit-- Especially now when all the others here Are having holiday visitors, and I feel A little conspicuous and in the way. It's mainly because of Thanksgiving. All these mothers And wives and husbands gaze at me soulfully And feel they should break up their box of chocolates For a donation, or hand me a chunk of fruitcake. What they don't understand and never guess Is that it's better for me without a family; It's a great blessing. Though I mean no harm. And as for visitors, why, I have you, All cheerful, brisk and punctual every Sunday, Like church, even if the aisles smell of phenol. And you always bring even better gifts than any On your book-trolley. Though they mean only good, Families can become a sort of burden. I've only got my father, and he won't come, Poor man, because it would be too much for him. And for me, too, so it's best the way it is. He knows, you see, that I will predecease him, Which is hard enough. It would take a callous man To come and stand around and watch me failing. (Now don't you fuss; we both know the plain facts.) But for him it's even harder. He loved my mother. They say she looked like me; I suppose she may have. Or rather, as I grew older I came to look More and more like she must one time have looked, And so the prospect for my father now Of losing me is like having to lose her twice. I know he frets about me. Dr. Frazer Tells me he phones in every single day, Hoping that things will take a turn for the better. But with leukemia things don't improve. It's like a sort of blizzard in the bloodstream, A deep, severe, unseasonable winter, Burying everything. The white blood cells Multiply crazily and storm around, Out of control. The chemotherapy Hasn't helped much, and it makes my hair fall out. I know I look a sight, but I don't care. I care about fewer things; I'm more selective. It's got so I can't even bring myself To read through any of your books these days. It's partly weariness, and partly the fact That I seem not to care much about the endings, How things work out, or whether they even do. What I do instead is sit here by this window And look out at the trees across the way. You wouldn't think that was much, but let me tell you, It keeps me quite intent and occupied. Now all the leaves are down, you can see the spare, Delicate structures of the sycamores, The fine articulation of the beeches. I have sat here for days studying them, And I have only just begun to see What it is that they resemble. One by one, They stand there like magnificent enlargements Of the vascular system of the human brain. I see them there like huge discarnate minds, Lost in their meditative silences. The trunks, branches and twigs compose the vessels That feed and nourish vast immortal thoughts. So I've assigned them names. There, near the path, Is the great brain of Beethoven, and Kepler Haunts the wide spaces of that mountain ash. This view, you see, has become my Hall of Fame, It came to me one day when I remembered Mary Beth Finley who used to play with me When we were girls. One year her parents gave her A birthday toy called "The Transparent Man." It was made of plastic, with different colored organs, And the circulatory system all mapped out In rivers of red and blue. She'd ask me over And the two of us would sit and study him Together, and do a powerful lot of giggling. I figure he's most likely the only man Either of us would ever get to know Intimately, because Mary Beth became A Sister of Mercy when she was old enough. She must be thirty-one; she was a year Older than I, and about four inches taller. I used to envy both those advantages Back in those days. Anyway, I was struck Right from the start by the sea-weed intricacy, The fine-haired, silken-threaded filiations That wove, like Belgian lace, throughout the head. But this last week it seems I have found myself Looking beyond, or through, individual trees At the dense, clustered woodland just behind them, Where those great, nameless crowds patiently stand. It's become a sort of complex, ultimate puzzle And keeps me fascinated. My eyes are twenty-twenty, Or used to be, but of course I can't unravel The tousled snarl of intersecting limbs, That mackled, cinder grayness. It's a riddle Beyond the eye's solution. Impenetrable. If there is order in all that anarchy Of granite mezzotint, that wilderness, It takes a better eye than mine to see it. It set me on to wondering how to deal With such a thickness of particulars, Deal with it faithfully, you understand, Without blurring the issue. Of course I know That within a month the sleeving snows will come With cold, selective emphases, with massings And arbitrary contrasts, rendering things Deceptively simple, thickening the twigs To frosty veins, bestowing epaulets And decorations on every birch and aspen. And the eye, self-satisfied, will be misled, Thinking the puzzle solved, supposing at last It can look forth and comprehend the world. That's when you have to really watch yourself. So I hope that you won't think me plain ungrateful For not selecting one of your fine books, And I take it very kindly that you came And sat here and let me rattle on this way.

Written by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | Idyll A village Chorus is supposed to be assembled, and about to commence its festive procession. [Written for the birthday of the Duchess Louisa of Weimar.] CHORUS. THE festal day hail ye With garlands of pleasure, And dances' soft measure, With rapture commingled And sweet choral song. DAMON. Oh, how I yearn from out the crowd to flee! What joy a secret glade would give to me! Amid the throng, the turmoil here, Confined the plain, the breezes e'en appear. CHORUS. Now order it truly, That ev'ry one duly May roam and may wander, Now here, and now yonder, The meadows along. [The Chorus retreats gradually, and the song becomes fainter and fainter, till it dies away in the distance.] DAMON. In vain ye call, in vain would lure me on; True my heart speaks,--but with itself alone. And if I may view A blessing-fraught land, The heaven's clear blue, And the plain's verdant hue, Alone I'll rejoice, Undisturbed by man's voice. And there I'll pay homage To womanly merit, Observe it in spirit, In spirit pay homage; To echo alone Shall my secret be known. CHORUS. [Faintly mingling with Damon's song in the distance.] To echo--alone-- Shall my secret--be known.-- MENALCAS. My friend, why meet I here with thee? Thou hast'nest not to join the festal throng? No longer stay, but come with me, And mingle in the dance and song. DAMON. Thou'rt welcome, friend! but suffer me to roam Where these old beeches hide me from man's view: Love seeks in solitude a home, And homage may retreat there too. MENALCAS. Thou seekest here a spurious fame, And hast a mind to-day to grieve me. Love as thy portion thou mayst claim But homage thou must share with all, believe me! When their voices thousands raise, And the dawn of morning praise, Rapture bringing, Blithely singing On before us, Heart and ear in pleasure vie; And when thousands join in chorus, With the feelings brightly glowing, And the wishes overflowing, Forcibly they'll bear thee high. [The Chorus gradually approaches, from the distance.] DAMON. Distant strains are hither wending, And I'm gladden'd by the throng; Yes, they're coming,--yes, descending To the valley from the height, MENALCAS. Let us haste, our footsteps blending With the rhythm of the song! Yes, they come; their course they're bending Tow'rd the wood's green sward so bright. CHORUS. [Gradually becoming louder.] Yes, we hither come, attending With the harmony of song, As the hours their race are ending On this day of blest delight. ALL. Let none reveal The thoughts we feel, The aims we own! Let joy alone Disclose the story! She'll prove it right And her delight Includes the glory, Includes the bliss Of days like this! 1813.

Written by Anne Bronte | Home How brightly glistening in the sun The woodland ivy plays! While yonder beeches from their barks Reflect his silver rays. That sun surveys a lovely scene From softly smiling skies; And wildly through unnumbered trees The wind of winter sighs: Now loud, it thunders o'er my head, And now in distance dies. But give me back my barren hills Where colder breezes rise; Where scarce the scattered, stunted trees Can yield an answering swell, But where a wilderness of heath Returns the sound as well. For yonder garden, fair and wide, With groves of evergreen, Long winding walks, and borders trim, And velvet lawns between; Restore to me that little spot, With grey walls compassed round, Where knotted grass neglected lies, And weeds usurp the ground. Though all around this mansion high Invites the foot to roam, And though its halls are fair within -- Oh, give me back my HOME!

Written by Matthew Arnold | The Strayed Reveller 1 Faster, faster, 2 O Circe, Goddess, 3 Let the wild, thronging train 4 The bright procession 5 Of eddying forms, 6 Sweep through my soul! 7 Thou standest, smiling 8 Down on me! thy right arm, 9 Lean'd up against the column there, 10 Props thy soft cheek; 11 Thy left holds, hanging loosely, 12 The deep cup, ivy-cinctured, 13 I held but now. 14 Is it, then, evening 15 So soon? I see, the night-dews, 16 Cluster'd in thick beads, dim 17 The agate brooch-stones 18 On thy white shoulder; 19 The cool night-wind, too, 20 Blows through the portico, 21 Stirs thy hair, Goddess, 22 Waves thy white robe! Circe. 23 Whence art thou, sleeper? The Youth. 24 When the white dawn first 25 Through the rough fir-planks 26 Of my hut, by the chestnuts, 27 Up at the valley-head, 28 Came breaking, Goddess! 29 I sprang up, I threw round me 30 My dappled fawn-skin; 31 Passing out, from the wet turf, 32 Where they lay, by the hut door, 33 I snatch'd up my vine-crown, my fir-staff, 34 All drench'd in dew- 35 Came swift down to join 36 The rout early gather'd 37 In the town, round the temple, 38 Iacchus' white fane 39 On yonder hill. 40 Quick I pass'd, following 41 The wood-cutters' cart-track 42 Down the dark valley;-I saw 43 On my left, through the beeches, 44 Thy palace, Goddess, 45 Smokeless, empty! 46 Trembling, I enter'd; beheld 47 The court all silent, 48 The lions sleeping, 49 On the altar this bowl. 50 I drank, Goddess! 51 And sank down here, sleeping, 52 On the steps of thy portico. Circe. 53 Foolish boy! Why tremblest thou? 54 Thou lovest it, then, my wine? 55 Wouldst more of it? See, how glows, 56 Through the delicate, flush'd marble, 57 The red, creaming liquor, 58 Strown with dark seeds! 59 Drink, thee! I chide thee not, 60 Deny thee not my bowl. 61 Come, stretch forth thy hand, thee-so! 62 Drink-drink again! The Youth. 63 Thanks, gracious one! 64 Ah, the sweet fumes again! 65 More soft, ah me, 66 More subtle-winding 67 Than Pan's flute-music! 68 Faint-faint! Ah me, 69 Again the sweet sleep! Circe. 70 Hist! Thou-within there! 71 Come forth, Ulysses! 72 Art tired with hunting? 73 While we range the woodland, 74 See what the day brings. Ulysses. 75 Ever new magic! 76 Hast thou then lured hither, 77 Wonderful Goddess, by thy art, 78 The young, languid-eyed Ampelus, 79 Iacchus' darling- 80 Or some youth beloved of Pan, 81 Of Pan and the Nymphs? 82 That he sits, bending downward 83 His white, delicate neck 84 To the ivy-wreathed marge 85 Of thy cup; the bright, glancing vine-leaves 86 That crown his hair, 87 Falling forward, mingling 88 With the dark ivy-plants-- 89 His fawn-skin, half untied, 90 Smear'd with red wine-stains? Who is he, 91 That he sits, overweigh'd 92 By fumes of wine and sleep, 93 So late, in thy portico? 94 What youth, Goddess,-what guest 95 Of Gods or mortals? Circe. 96 Hist! he wakes! 97 I lured him not hither, Ulysses. 98 Nay, ask him! The Youth. 99 Who speaks' Ah, who comes forth 100 To thy side, Goddess, from within? 101 How shall I name him? 102 This spare, dark-featured, 103 Quick-eyed stranger? 104 Ah, and I see too 105 His sailor's bonnet, 106 His short coat, travel-tarnish'd, 107 With one arm bare!-- 108 Art thou not he, whom fame 109 This long time rumours 110 The favour'd guest of Circe, brought by the waves? 111 Art thou he, stranger? 112 The wise Ulysses, 113 Laertes' son? Ulysses. 114 I am Ulysses. 115 And thou, too, sleeper? 116 Thy voice is sweet. 117 It may be thou hast follow'd 118 Through the islands some divine bard, 119 By age taught many things, 120 Age and the Muses; 121 And heard him delighting 122 The chiefs and people 123 In the banquet, and learn'd his songs. 124 Of Gods and Heroes, 125 Of war and arts, 126 And peopled cities, 127 Inland, or built 128 By the gray sea.-If so, then hail! 129 I honour and welcome thee. The Youth. 130 The Gods are happy. 131 They turn on all sides 132 Their shining eyes, 133 And see below them 134 The earth and men. 135 They see Tiresias 136 Sitting, staff in hand, 137 On the warm, grassy 138 Asopus bank, 139 His robe drawn over 140 His old sightless head, 141 Revolving inly 142 The doom of Thebes. 143 They see the Centaurs 144 In the upper glens 145 Of Pelion, in the streams, 146 Where red-berried ashes fringe 147 The clear-brown shallow pools, 148 With streaming flanks, and heads 149 Rear'd proudly, snuffing 150 The mountain wind. 151 They see the Indian 152 Drifting, knife in hand, 153 His frail boat moor'd to 154 A floating isle thick-matted 155 With large-leaved, low-creeping melon-plants 156 And the dark cucumber. 157 He reaps, and stows them, 158 Drifting--drifting;--round him, 159 Round his green harvest-plot, 160 Flow the cool lake-waves, 161 The mountains ring them. 162 They see the Scythian 163 On the wide stepp, unharnessing 164 His wheel'd house at noon. 165 He tethers his beast down, and makes his meal-- 166 Mares' milk, and bread 167 Baked on the embers;--all around 168 The boundless, waving grass-plains stretch, thick-starr'd 169 With saffron and the yellow hollyhock 170 And flag-leaved iris-flowers. 171 Sitting in his cart 172 He makes his meal; before him, for long miles, 173 Alive with bright green lizards, 174 And the springing bustard-fowl, 175 The track, a straight black line, 176 Furrows the rich soil; here and there 177 Cluster of lonely mounds 178 Topp'd with rough-hewn, 179 Gray, rain-blear'd statues, overpeer 180 The sunny waste. 181 They see the ferry 182 On the broad, clay-laden 183 Lone Chorasmian stream;--thereon, 184 With snort and strain, 185 Two horses, strongly swimming, tow 186 The ferry-boat, with woven ropes 187 To either bow 188 Firm harness'd by the mane; a chief 189 With shout and shaken spear, 190 Stands at the prow, and guides them; but astern 191 The cowering merchants, in long robes, 192 Sit pale beside their wealth 193 Of silk-bales and of balsam-drops, 194 Of gold and ivory, 195 Of turquoise-earth and amethyst, 196 Jasper and chalcedony, 197 And milk-barred onyx-stones. 198 The loaded boat swings groaning 199 In the yellow eddies; 200 The Gods behold him. 201 They see the Heroes 202 Sitting in the dark ship 203 On the foamless, long-heaving 204 Violet sea. 205 At sunset nearing 206 The Happy Islands. 207 These things, Ulysses, 208 The wise bards, also 209 Behold and sing. 210 But oh, what labour! 211 O prince, what pain! 212 They too can see 213 Tiresias;--but the Gods, 214 Who give them vision, 215 Added this law: 216 That they should bear too 217 His groping blindness, 218 His dark foreboding, 219 His scorn'd white hairs; 220 Bear Hera's anger 221 Through a life lengthen'd 222 To seven ages. 223 They see the Centaurs 224 On Pelion:--then they feel, 225 They too, the maddening wine 226 Swell their large veins to bursting; in wild pain 227 They feel the biting spears 228 Of the grim Lapith?, and Theseus, drive, 229 Drive crashing through their bones; they feel 230 High on a jutting rock in the red stream 231 Alcmena's dreadful son 232 Ply his bow;--such a price 233 The Gods exact for song: 234 To become what we sing. 235 They see the Indian 236 On his mountain lake; but squalls 237 Make their skiff reel, and worms 238 In the unkind spring have gnawn 239 Their melon-harvest to the heart.--They see 240 The Scythian: but long frosts 241 Parch them in winter-time on the bare stepp, 242 Till they too fade like grass; they crawl 243 Like shadows forth in spring. 244 They see the merchants 245 On the Oxus stream;--but care 246 Must visit first them too, and make them pale. 247 Whether, through whirling sand, 248 A cloud of desert robber-horse have burst 249 Upon their caravan; or greedy kings, 250 In the wall'd cities the way passes through, 251 Crush'd them with tolls; or fever-airs, 252 On some great river's marge, 253 Mown them down, far from home. 254 They see the Heroes 255 Near harbour;--but they share 256 Their lives, and former violent toil in Thebes, 257 Seven-gated Thebes, or Troy; 258 Or where the echoing oars 259 Of Argo first 260 Startled the unknown sea. 261 The old Silenus 262 Came, lolling in the sunshine, 263 From the dewy forest-coverts, 264 This way at noon. 265 Sitting by me, while his Fauns 266 Down at the water-side 267 Sprinkled and smoothed 268 His drooping garland, 269 He told me these things. 270 But I, Ulysses, 271 Sitting on the warm steps, 272 Looking over the valley, 273 All day long, have seen, 274 Without pain, without labour, 275 Sometimes a wild-hair'd M?nad-- 276 Sometimes a Faun with torches-- 277 And sometimes, for a moment, 278 Passing through the dark stems 279 Flowing-robed, the beloved, 280 The desired, the divine, 281 Beloved Iacchus. 282 Ah, cool night-wind, tremulous stars! 283 Ah, glimmering water, 284 Fitful earth-murmur, 285 Dreaming woods! 286 Ah, golden-haired, strangely smiling Goddess, 287 And thou, proved, much enduring, 288 Wave-toss'd Wanderer! 289 Who can stand still? 290 Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me-- 291 The cup again! 292 Faster, faster, 293 O Circe, Goddess. 294 Let the wild, thronging train, 295 The bright procession 296 Of eddying forms, 297 Sweep through my soul!

Written by Siegfried Sassoon | A Letter Home (To Robert Graves) I Here I'm sitting in the gloom Of my quiet attic room. France goes rolling all around, Fledged with forest May has crowned. And I puff my pipe, calm-hearted, Thinking how the fighting started, Wondering when we'll ever end it, Back to hell with Kaiser sent it, Gag the noise, pack up and go, Clockwork soldiers in a row. I've got better things to do Than to waste my time on you. II Robert, when I drowse to-night, Skirting lawns of sleep to chase Shifting dreams in mazy light, Somewhere then I'll see your face Turning back to bid me follow Where I wag my arms and hollo, Over hedges hasting after Crooked smile and baffling laughter, Running tireless, floating, leaping, Down your web-hung woods and valleys, Where the glowworm stars are peeping, Till I find you, quiet as stone On a hill-top all alone, Staring outward, gravely pondering Jumbled leagues of hillock-wandering. III You and I have walked together In the starving winter weather. We've been glad because we knew Time's too short and friends are few. We've been sad because we missed One whose yellow head was kissed By the gods, who thought about him Till they couldn't do without him. Now he's here again; I've been Soldier David dressed in green, Standing in a wood that swings To the madrigal he sings. He's come back, all mirth and glory, Like the prince in a fairy tory. Winter called him far away; Blossoms bring him home with May. IV Well, I know you'll swear it's true That you found him decked in blue Striding up through morning-land With a cloud on either hand. Out in Wales, you'll say, he marches Arm-in-arm with aoks and larches; Hides all night in hilly nooks, Laughs at dawn in tumbling brooks. Yet, it's certain, here he teaches Outpost-schemes to groups of beeches. And I'm sure, as here I stand, That he shines through every land, That he sings in every place Where we're thinking of his face. V Robert, there's a war in France; Everywhere men bang and blunder, Sweat and swear and worship Chance, Creep and blink through cannon thunder. Rifles crack and bullets flick, Sing and hum like hornet-swarms. Bones are smashed and buried quick. Yet, through stunning battle storms, All the while I watch the spark Lit to guide me; for I know Dreams will triumph, though the dark Scowls above me where I go. You can hear me; you can mingle Radiant folly with my jingle. War's a joke for me and you While we know such dreams are true!

Written by Dylan Thomas | Especially When The October Wind Especially when the October wind With frosty fingers punishes my hair, Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire And cast a shadow crab upon the land, By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds, Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks, My busy heart who shudders as she talks Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words. Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark On the horizon walking like the trees The wordy shapes of women, and the rows Of the star-gestured children in the park. Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches, Some of the oaken voices, from the roots Of many a thorny shire tell you notes, Some let me make you of the water's speeches. Behind a post of ferns the wagging clock Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning And tells the windy weather in the cock. Some let me make you of the meadow's signs; The signal grass that tells me all I know Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye. Some let me tell you of the raven's sins. Especially when the October wind (Some let me make you of autumnal spells, The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales) With fists of turnips punishes the land, Some let me make of you the heartless words. The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury. By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.

Written by John Greenleaf Whittier | Telling the Bees Here is the place; right over the hill Runs the path I took; You can see the gap in the old wall still, And the stepping-stones in the shallow brook. There is the house, with the gate red-barred, And the poplars tall; And the barn's brown length, and the cattle-yard, And the white horns tossing above the wall. There are the beehives ranged in the sun; And down by the brink Of the brook are her poor flowers, weed-o'errun, Pansy and daffodil, rose and pink. A year has gone, as the tortoise goes, Heavy and slow; And the same rose blows, and the same sun glows, And the same brook sings of a year ago. There 's the same sweet clover-smell in the breeze; And the June sun warm Tangles his wings of fire in the trees, Setting, as then, over Fernside farm. I mind me how with a lover's care From my Sunday coat I brushed off the burrs, and smoothed my hair, And cooled at the brookside my brow and throat. Since we parted, a month had passed, -- To love, a year; Down through the beeches I looked at last On the little red gate and the well-sweep near. I can see it all now, -- the slantwise rain Of light through the leaves, The sundown's blaze on her window-pane, The bloom of her roses under the eaves. Just the same as a month before, -- The house and the trees, The barn's brown gable, the vine by the door, -- Nothing changed but the hives of bees. Before them, under the garden wall, Forward and back, Went drearily singing the chore-girl small, Draping each hive with a shred of black. Trembling, I listened: the summer sun Had the chill of snow; For I knew she was telling the bees of one Gone on the journey we all must go! Then I said to myself, "My Mary weeps For the dead to-day: Haply her blind old grandsire sleeps The fret and the pain of his age away." But her dog whined low; on the doorway sill, With his cane to his chin, The old man sat; and the chore-girl still Sung to the bees stealing out and in. And the song she was singing ever since In my ear sounds on: -- "Stay at home, pretty bees, fly not hence! Mistress Mary is dead and gone!"

Written by Alfred Lord Tennyson | Amphion MY father left a park to me, But it is wild and barren, A garden too with scarce a tree, And waster than a warren: Yet say the neighbours when they call, It is not bad but good land, And in it is the germ of all That grows within the woodland. O had I lived when song was great In days of old Amphion, And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, Nor cared for seed or scion! And had I lived when song was great, And legs of trees were limber, And ta'en my fiddle to the gate, And fiddled in the timber! 'Tis said he had a tuneful tongue, Such happy intonation, Wherever he sat down and sung He left a small plantation; Wherever in a lonely grove He set up his forlorn pipes, The gouty oak began to move, And flounder into hornpipes. The mountain stirr'd its bushy crown, And, as tradition teaches, Young ashes pirouetted down Coquetting with young beeches; And briony-vine and ivy-wreath Ran forward to his rhyming, And from the valleys underneath Came little copses climbing. The linden broke her ranks and rent The woodbine wreaths that bind her, And down the middle, buzz! she went With all her bees behind her: The poplars, in long order due, With cypress promenaded, The shock-head willows two and two By rivers gallopaded. Came wet-shod alder from the wave, Came yews, a dismal coterie; Each pluck'd his one foot from the grave, Poussetting with a sloe-tree: Old elms came breaking from the vine, The vine stream'd out to follow, And, sweating rosin, plump'd the pine From many a cloudy hollow. And wasn't it a sight to see, When, ere his song was ended, Like some great landslip, tree by tree, The country-side descended; And shepherds from the mountain-eaves Look'd down, half-pleased, half-frighten'd, As dash'd about the drunken leaves The random sunshine lighten'd! Oh, nature first was fresh to men, And wanton without measure; So youthful and so flexile then, You moved her at your pleasure. Twang out, my fiddle! shake the twigs' And make her dance attendance; Blow, flute, and stir the stiff-set sprigs, And scirrhous roots and tendons. 'Tis vain ! in such a brassy age I could not move a thistle; The very sparrows in the hedge Scarce answer to my whistle; 'Or at the most, when three-parts-sick With strumming and with scraping, A jackass heehaws from the rick, The passive oxen gaping. But what is that I hear ? a sound Like sleepy counsel pleading; O Lord !--'tis in my neighbour's ground, The modern Muses reading. They read Botanic Treatises, And Works on Gardening thro' there, And Methods of transplanting trees To look as if they grew there. The wither'd Misses! how they prose O'er books of travell'd seamen, And show you slips of all that grows From England to Van Diemen. They read in arbours clipt and cut, And alleys, faded places, By squares of tropic summer shut And warm'd in crystal cases. But these, tho' fed with careful dirt, Are neither green nor sappy; Half-conscious of the garden-squirt, The spindlings look unhappy. Better to me the meanest weed That blows upon its mountain, The vilest herb that runs to seed Beside its native fountain. And I must work thro' months of toil, And years of cultivation, Upon my proper patch of soil To grow my own plantation. I'll take the showers as they fall, I will not vex my bosom: Enough if at the end of all A little garden blossom.

Written by Lucy Maud Montgomery | An April Night The moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods, And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills, Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds Over the pools and the whimpering rills; And with her the mists, like dryads that creep From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs, Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep, With the wind on the hills their gay revellings. Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow Wanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night, Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light. The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear, Akin to all eerie and elfin things, Who weaves about us in meadow and mere The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.