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Best Famous Sapling Poems

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

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Written by Billy Collins | Create an image from this poem

Directions

 You know the brick path in the back of the house,
the one you see from the kitchen window, 
the one that bends around the far end of the garden
where all the yellow primroses are?
And you know how if you leave the path
and walk into the woods you come 
to a heap of rocks, probably pushed
down during the horrors of the Ice Age,
and a grove of tall hemlocks, dark green now
against the light-brown fallen leaves?
And farther on, you know
the small footbridge with the broken railing
and if you go beyond the you arrive
at the bottom of sheep's head hill?
Well, if you start climbing, and you
might have to grab on to a sapling
when the going gets steep,
you will eventually come to a long stone 
ridge with a border of pine trees
which is a high as you can go
and a good enough place to stop.

The best time for this is late afternoon
en the sun strobes through
the columns of trees as you are hiking up,
and when you find an agreeable rock
to sit on, you will be able to see
the light pouring down into the woods
and breaking into the shapes and tones
of things and you will hear nothing 
but a sprig of a birdsong or leafy
falling of a cone or t through the trees,
and if this is your day you might even 
spot a hare or feel the wing-beats of geese
driving overhead toward some destination.

But it is hard to speak of these things
how the voices of light enter the body
and begin to recite their stories
how the earth holds us painfully against 
ts breast made of humus and brambles
how we will soon be gone regard
the entities that continue to return
greener than ever, spring water flowing
through a meadow and the shadows of clouds
passing over the hills and the ground
where we stand in the tremble of thought
taking the vast outside into ourselves.

Still, let me know before you set out.
Come knock on my door
and I will walk with you as far as the garden 
with one hand on your shoulder.
I will even watch after you and not turn back
to the house until you disappear 
into the crowd of maple and ash,
heading up toward the hill,
percing the ground with your stick.


Written by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | Create an image from this poem

An April Day

 When the warm sun, that brings
Seed-time and harvest, has returned again,
'T is sweet to visit the still wood, where springs
The first flower of the plain.

I love the season well,
When forest glades are teeming with bright forms,
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell
The coming-on of storms.

From the earth's loosened mould
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives;
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold,
The drooping tree revives.

The softly-warbled song
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along
The forest openings.

When the bright sunset fills
The silver woods with light, the green slope throws
Its shadows in the hollows of the hills,
And wide the upland glows.

And when the eve is born,
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far,
Is hollowed out and the moon dips her horn,
And twinkles many a star.

Inverted in the tide
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw,
And the fair trees look over, side by side,
And see themselves below.

Sweet April! many a thought
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed;
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought,
Life's golden fruit is shed.
Written by Emily Brontë | Create an image from this poem

Death

 Death! that struck when I was most confiding
In my certain faith of joy to be -
Strike again, Time's withered branch dividing
From the fresh root of Eternity! 

Leaves, upon Time's branch, were growing brightly,
Full of sap, and full of silver dew;
Birds beneath its shelter gathered nightly;
Daily round its flowers the wild bees flew. 

Sorrow passed, and plucked the golden blossom;
Guilt stripped off the foliage in its pride;
But, within its parent's kindly bosom,
Flowed for ever Life's restoring-tide. 

Little mourned I for the parted gladness,
For the vacant nest and silent song -
Hope was there, and laughed me out of sadness;
Whispering, " Winter will not linger long!" 

And, behold! with tenfold increase blessing,
Spring adorned the beauty-burdened spray;
Wind and rain and fervent heat, caressing,
Lavished glory on that second May! 

High it rose - no winged grief could sweep it;
Sin was scared to distance with its shine;
Love, and its own life, had power to keep it
From all wrong - from every blight but thine! 

Cruel Death! The young leaves droop and languish;
Evening's gentle air may still restore -
No! the morning sunshine mocks my anguish -
Time, for me, must never blossom more! 

Strike it down, that other boughs may flourish
Where that perished sapling used to be;
Thus, at least, its mouldering corpse will nourish
That from which it sprung - Eternity.
Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

On The Night Train

 Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running by? 
Blackened log and stump and sapling, ghostly trees all dead and dry; 
Here a patch of glassy water; there a glimpse of mystic sky? 
Have you heard the still voice calling – yet so warm, and yet so cold: 
"I'm the Mother-Bush that bore you! Come to me when you are old"? 

Did you see the Bush below you sweeping darkly to the Range, 
All unchanged and all unchanging, yet so very old and strange! 
While you thought in softened anger of the things that did estrange? 
(Did you hear the Bush a-calling, when your heart was young and bold: 
"I'm the Mother-bush that nursed you; Come to me when you are old"?) 

In the cutting or the tunnel, out of sight of stock or shed, 
Did you hear the grey Bush calling from the pine-ridge overhead: 
"You have seen the seas and cities – all is cold to you, or dead – 
All seems done and all seems told, but the grey-light turns to gold! 
I'm the Mother-Bush that loves you – come to me now you are old"?
Written by Ezra Pound | Create an image from this poem

Dance Figure

 For the Marriage in Cana of Galilee

Dark-eyed, 
O woman of my dreams, 
Ivory sandalled, 
There is none like thee among the dancers, 
None with swift feet.
I have not found thee in the tents, 
In the broken darkness.
I have not found thee at the well-head
Among the women with pitchers.
Thine arms are as a young sapling under the bark; 
Thy face as a river with lights.

White as an almond are thy shoulders; 
As new almonds stripped from the husk.
They guard thee not with eunuchs; 
Not with bars of copper.

Gilt turquoise and silver are in the place of thy rest.
A brown robe, with threads of gold woven in
patterns, hast thou gathered about thee, 
O Nathat-Ikanaie, 'Tree-at-the-river'.

As a rillet among the sedge are thy hands upon me; 
Thy fingers a frosted stream.

Thy maidens are white like pebbles; 
Their music about thee! 

There is none like thee among the dancers; 
None with swift feet.


Written by Victor Hugo | Create an image from this poem

King Louis Xvii

 ("En ce temps-là du ciel les portes.") 
 
 {Bk. I. v., December, 1822.} 


 The golden gates were opened wide that day, 
 All through the unveiled heaven there seemed to play 
 Out of the Holiest of Holy, light; 
 And the elect beheld, crowd immortal, 
 A young soul, led up by young angels bright, 
 Stand in the starry portal. 
 
 A fair child fleeing from the world's fierce hate, 
 In his blue eye the shade of sorrow sate, 
 His golden hair hung all dishevelled down, 
 On wasted cheeks that told a mournful story, 
 And angels twined him with the innocent's crown, 
 The martyr's palm of glory. 
 
 The virgin souls that to the Lamb are near, 
 Called through the clouds with voices heavenly clear, 
 God hath prepared a glory for thy brow, 
 Rest in his arms, and all ye hosts that sing 
 His praises ever on untired string, 
 Chant, for a mortal comes among ye now; 
 Do homage—"'Tis a king." 
 
 And the pale shadow saith to God in heaven: 
 "I am an orphan and no king at all; 
 I was a weary prisoner yestereven, 
 My father's murderers fed my soul with gall. 
 Not me, O Lord, the regal name beseems. 
 Last night I fell asleep in dungeon drear, 
 But then I saw my mother in my dreams, 
 Say, shall I find her here?" 
 
 The angels said: "Thy Saviour bids thee come, 
 Out of an impure world He calls thee home, 
 From the mad earth, where horrid murder waves 
 Over the broken cross her impure wings, 
 And regicides go down among the graves, 
 Scenting the blood of kings." 
 
 He cries: "Then have I finished my long life? 
 Are all its evils over, all its strife, 
 And will no cruel jailer evermore 
 Wake me to pain, this blissful vision o'er? 
 Is it no dream that nothing else remains 
 Of all my torments but this answered cry, 
 And have I had, O God, amid my chains, 
 The happiness to die? 
 
 "For none can tell what cause I had to pine, 
 What pangs, what miseries, each day were mine; 
 And when I wept there was no mother near 
 To soothe my cries, and smile away my tear. 
 Poor victim of a punishment unending, 
 Torn like a sapling from its mother earth, 
 So young, I could not tell what crime impending 
 Had stained me from my birth. 
 
 "Yet far off in dim memory it seems, 
 With all its horror mingled happy dreams, 
 Strange cries of glory rocked my sleeping head, 
 And a glad people watched beside my bed. 
 One day into mysterious darkness thrown, 
 I saw the promise of my future close; 
 I was a little child, left all alone, 
 Alas! and I had foes. 
 
 "They cast me living in a dreary tomb, 
 Never mine eyes saw sunlight pierce the gloom, 
 Only ye, brother angels, used to sweep 
 Down from your heaven, and visit me in sleep. 
 'Neath blood-red hands my young life withered there. 
 Dear Lord, the bad are miserable all, 
 Be not Thou deaf, like them, unto my prayer, 
 It is for them I call." 
 
 The angels sang: "See heaven's high arch unfold, 
 Come, we will crown thee with the stars above, 
 Will give thee cherub-wings of blue and gold, 
 And thou shalt learn our ministry of love, 
 Shalt rock the cradle where some mother's tears 
 Are dropping o'er her restless little one, 
 Or, with thy luminous breath, in distant spheres, 
 Shalt kindle some cold sun." 
 
 Ceased the full choir, all heaven was hushed to hear, 
 Bowed the fair face, still wet with many a tear, 
 In depths of space, the rolling worlds were stayed, 
 Whilst the Eternal in the infinite said: 
 
 "O king, I kept thee far from human state, 
 Who hadst a dungeon only for thy throne, 
 O son, rejoice, and bless thy bitter fate, 
 The slavery of kings thou hast not known, 
 What if thy wasted arms are bleeding yet, 
 And wounded with the fetter's cruel trace, 
 No earthly diadem has ever set 
 A stain upon thy face. 
 
 "Child, life and hope were with thee at thy birth, 
 But life soon bowed thy tender form to earth, 
 And hope forsook thee in thy hour of need. 
 Come, for thy Saviour had His pains divine; 
 Come, for His brow was crowned with thorns like thine, 
 His sceptre was a reed." 
 
 Dublin University Magazine. 


 




Written by Henry Lawson | Create an image from this poem

Trooper Campbell

 One day old Trooper Campbell 
Rode out to Blackman's Run, 
His cap-peak and his sabre 
Were glancing in the sun. 
'Twas New Year's Eve, and slowly 
Across the ridges low 
The sad Old Year was drifting 
To where the old years go. 

The trooper's mind was reading 
The love-page of his life -- 
His love for Mary Wylie 
Ere she was Blackman's wife; 
He sorrowed for the sorrows 
Of the heart a rival won, 
For he knew that there was trouble 
Out there on Blackman's Run. 

The sapling shades had lengthened, 
The summer day was late, 
When Blackman met the trooper 
Beyond the homestead gate. 
And if the hand of trouble 
Can leave a lasting trace, 
The lines of care had come to stay 
On poor old Blackman's face. 

`Not good day, Trooper Campbell, 
It's a bad, bad day for me -- 
You are of all the men on earth 
The one I wished to see. 
The great black clouds of trouble 
Above our homestead hang; 
That wild and reckless boy of mine 
Has joined M'Durmer's gang. 

`Oh! save him, save him, Campbell! 
I beg in friendship's name! 
For if they take and hang him, 
The wife would die of shame. 
Could Mary or her sisters 
Hold up their heads again, 
And face a woman's malice 
Or claim the love of men? 

`And if he does a murder 
'Twere better we were dead. 
Don't take him, Trooper Campbell, 
If a price be on his head; 
But shoot him! shoot him, Campbell, 
When you meet him face to face, 
And save him from the gallows, 
And us from that disgrace.' 

`Now, Tom,' cried Trooper Campbell, 
`You know your words are wild. 
Though he is wild and reckless, 
Yet still he is your child; 
So bear up in your trouble, 
And meet it like a man, 
And tell the wife and daughters 
I'll save him if I can.' 

. . . . . 

The sad Australian sunset 
Had faded from the west; 
But night brings darker shadows 
To hearts that cannot rest; 
And Blackman's wife sat rocking 
And moaning in her chair. 
`I cannot bear disgrace,' she moaned; 
`Disgrace I cannot bear. 

`In hardship and in trouble 
I struggled year by year 
To make my children better 
Than other children here. 
And if my son's a felon 
How can I show my face? 
I cannot bear disgrace; my God, 
I cannot bear disgrace! 

`Ah, God in Heaven pardon! 
I'm selfish in my woe -- 
My boy is better-hearted 
Than many that I know. 
And I will face the world's disgrace, 
And, till his mother's dead, 
My foolish child shall find a place 
To lay his outlawed head.' 

. . . . . 

With a sad heart Trooper Campbell 
Rode back from Blackman's Run, 
Nor noticed aught about him 
Till thirteen miles were done; 
When, close beside a cutting, 
He heard the click of locks, 
And saw the rifle muzzles 
Were on him from the rocks. 

But suddenly a youth rode out, 
And, close by Campbell's side: 
`Don't fire! don't fire, in heaven's name! 
It's Campbell, boys!' he cried. 
Then one by one in silence 
The levelled rifles fell, 
For who'd shoot Trooper Campbell 
Of those who knew him well? 

Oh, bravely sat old Campbell, 
No sign of fear showed he. 
He slowly drew his carbine; 
It rested by his knee. 
The outlaws' guns were lifted, 
But none the silence broke, 
Till steadfastly and firmly 
Old Trooper Campbell spoke. 

`That boy that you would ruin 
Goes home with me, my men; 
Or some of us shall never 
Ride through the Gap again. 
You know old Trooper Campbell, 
And have you ever heard 
That bluff or lead could turn him, 
That e'er he broke his word? 

`That reckless lad is playing 
A heartless villain's part; 
He knows that he is breaking 
His poor old mother's heart. 
He'll bring a curse upon himself; 
But 'tis not that alone, 
He'll bring dishonour to a name 
That I'D be proud to own. 

`I speak to you, M'Durmer, -- 
If your heart's not hardened quite, 
And if you'd seen the trouble 
At Blackman's home this night, 
You'd help me now, M'Durmer -- 
I speak as man to man -- 
I swore to save that foolish lad, 
And I'll save him if I can.' 

`Oh, take him!' said M'Durmer, 
`He's got a horse to ride.' 
The youngster thought a moment, 
Then rode to Campbell's side -- 
`Good-bye!' the outlaws shouted, 
As up the range they sped. 
`A Merry New Year, Campbell,' 
Was all M'Durmer said. 

. . . . . 

Then fast along the ridges 
Two bushmen rode a race, 
And the moonlight lent a glory 
To Trooper Campbell's face. 
And ere the new year's dawning 
They reached the home at last; 
And this is but a story 
Of trouble that is past!
Written by Thomas Hardy | Create an image from this poem

In a Wood

 Pale beech and pine-tree blue, 
Set in one clay, 
Bough to bough cannot you 
Bide out your day? 
When the rains skim and skip, 
Why mar sweet comradeship, 
Blighting with poison-drip 
Neighborly spray? 

Heart-halt and spirit-lame, 
City-opprest, 
Unto this wood I came 
As to a nest; 
Dreaming that sylvan peace 
Offered the harrowed ease— 
Nature a soft release 
From men’s unrest. 

But, having entered in, 
Great growths and small 
Show them to men akin— 
Combatants all! 
Sycamore shoulders oak, 
Bines the slim sapling yoke, 
Ivy-spun halters choke 
Elms stout and tall. 

Touches from ash, O wych, 
Sting you like scorn! 
You, too, brave hollies, twitch 
Sidelong from thorn. 
Even the rank poplars bear 
Illy a rival’s air, 
Cankering in black despair 
If overborne. 

Since, then, no grace I find 
Taught me of trees, 
Turn I back to my kind, 
Worthy as these. 
There at least smiles abound, 
There discourse trills around, 
There, now and then, are found 
Life-loyalties.
Written by Robert Burns | Create an image from this poem

234. A Mother's Lament for her Son's Death

 FATE gave the word, the arrow sped,
 And pierc’d my darling’s heart;
And with him all the joys are fled
 Life can to me impart.


By cruel hands the sapling drops,
 In dust dishonour’d laid;
So fell the pride of all my hopes,
 My age’s future shade.


The mother-linnet in the brake
 Bewails her ravish’d young;
So I, for my lost darling’s sake,
 Lament the live-day long.


Death, oft I’ve feared thy fatal blow.
 Now, fond, I bare my breast;
O, do thou kindly lay me low
 With him I love, at rest!
Written by Emily Dickinson | Create an image from this poem

Nature -- sometimes sears a Sapling

 Nature -- sometimes sears a Sapling --
Sometimes -- scalps a Tree --
Her Green People recollect it
When they do not die --

Fainter Leaves -- to Further Seasons --
Dumbly testify --
We -- who have the Souls --
Die oftener -- Not so vitally --

Book: Reflection on the Important Things