Trees to turn at the frosty call And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall;

Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, Trees for the cunning builder's trade;

Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, The keel and the mast of the daring sail;

He made them of every grain and girth, For the use of man in the Garden of Earth.

Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes From the gift to the Giver of Paradise,

On the crown of a hill, for all to see, G.o.d planted a scarlet maple tree.

BLISS CARMAN

THE TREES

There's something in a n.o.ble tree-- What shall I say? a soul?

For 'tis not form, or aught we see In leaf or branch or bole.

Some presence, though not understood, Dwells there alway, and seems To be acquainted with our mood, And mingles in our dreams.

I would not say that trees at all Were of our blood and race, Yet, lingering where their shadows fall, I sometimes think I trace A kinship, whose far-reaching root Grew when the world began, And made them best of all things mute To be the friends of man.

Held down by whatsoever might Unto an earthly sod, They stretch forth arms for air and light, As we do after G.o.d; And when in all their boughs the breeze Moans loud, or softly sings, As our own hearts in us, the trees Are almost human things.

What wonder in the days that burned With old poetic dream, Dead Phaethon's fair sisters turned To poplars by the stream!

In many a light cotillion stept The trees when fluters blew; And many a tear, 'tis said, they wept For human sorrow too.

Mute, said I? They are seldom thus; They whisper each to each, And each and all of them to us, In varied forms of speech.

"Be serious," the solemn pine Is saying overhead; "Be beautiful," the elm-tree fine Has always finely said;

"Be quick to feel," the aspen still Repeats the whole day long; While, from the green slope of the hill, The oak-tree adds, "Be strong."

When with my burden, as I hear Their distant voices call, I rise, and listen, and draw near, "Be patient," say they all.

SAMUEL VALENTINE COLE

THE POPLARS

My poplars are like ladies trim, Each conscious of her own estate; In costume somewhat over prim, In manner cordially sedate, Like two old neighbours met to chat Beside my garden gate.

My stately old aristocrats-- I fancy still their talk must be Of rose-conserves and Persian cats, And lavender and Indian tea;-- I wonder sometimes as I pa.s.s If they approve of me.

I give them greeting night and morn, I like to think they answer, too, With that benign a.s.surance born When youth gives age the reverence due, And bend their wise heads as I go As courteous ladies do.

Long may you stand before my door, Oh, kindly neighbours garbed in green, And bend with rustling welcome o'er The many friends who pa.s.s between; And where the little children play Look down with gracious mien.

THEODOSIA GARRISON

TREES

I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at G.o.d 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 G.o.d can make a tree.

JOYCE KILMER

THE LOST GARDENS OF THE HEART

AS IN A ROSE-JAR

_As in a rose-jar filled with petals sweet Blown long ago in some old garden place, Mayhap, where you and I, a little s.p.a.ce Drank deep of love and knew that love was fleet-- Or leaves once gathered from a lost retreat By one who never will again retrace Her silent footsteps--one, whose gentle face Was fairer than the roses at her feet;_

_So, deep within the vase of memory I keep my dust of roses fresh and dear As in the days before I knew the smart Of time and death. Nor aught can take from me The haunting fragrance that still lingers here-- As in a rose-jar, so within the heart!_

THOMAS S. JONES, JR.

IN AN OLD GARDEN

Old phantoms haunt it of the long-ago; Old ghosts of old-time lovers and of dreams: Within the quiet sunlight there, meseems, I see them walking where those lilies blow.

The hardy phlox sways to some garments' flow; The salvia there with sudden scarlet streams, Caught from some ribbon of some throat that gleams, Petunia fair, in flounce and furbelow.

I seem to hear their whispers in each wind That wanders 'mid the flowers. There they stand!

Among the shadows of that apple tree!

They are not dead, whom still it keeps in mind, This garden, planted by some lovely hand That keeps it fragrant with its memory.

MADISON CAWEIN

THE GARDEN OF DREAMS

My heart is a garden of dreams Where you walk when day is done, Fair as the royal flowers, Calm as the lingering sun.

Never a drouth comes there, Nor any frost that mars, Only the wind of love Under the early stars,--

The living breath that moves Whispering to and fro, Like the voice of G.o.d in the dusk Of the garden long ago.