| |
| I STAND within the stony, arid town, | |
| I gaze for ever on the narrow street, | |
| I hear for ever passing up and down | |
| The ceaseless tramp of feet. | |
| |
| I know no brotherhood with far-locked woods, | 5 |
| Where branches bourgeon from a kindred sap, | |
| Where o’er mossed roots, in cool, green solitudes, | |
| Small silver brooklets lap. | |
| |
| No emerald vines creep wistfully to me | |
| And lay their tender fingers on my bark; | 10 |
| High may I toss my boughs, yet never see | |
| Dawn’s first most glorious spark. | |
| |
| When to and fro my branches wave and sway, | |
| Answ’ring the feeble wind that faintly calls, | |
| They kiss no kindred boughs, but touch alway | 15 |
| The stones of climbing walls. | |
| |
| My heart is never pierced with song of bird; | |
| My leaves know nothing of that glad unrest | |
| Which makes a flutter in the still woods heard | |
| When wild birds build a nest. | 20 |
| |
| There never glance the eyes of violets up, | |
| Blue, into the deep splendour of my green; | |
| Nor falls the sunlight to the primrose cup | |
| My quivering leaves between. | |
| |
| Not mine, not mine to turn from soft delight | 25 |
| Of woodbine breathings, honey sweet and warm; | |
| With kin embattled rear my glorious height | |
| To greet the coming storm! | |
| |
| Not mine to watch across the free, broad plains | |
| The whirl of stormy cohorts sweeping fast, | 30 |
| The level silver lances of great rains | |
| Blown onward by the blast! | |
| |
| Not mine the clamouring tempest to defy, | |
| Tossing the proud crest of my dusky leaves— | |
| Defender of small flowers that trembling lie | 35 |
| Against my barky greaves! | |
| |
| Not mine to watch the wild swan drift above, | |
| Balanced on wings that could not choose between | |
| The wooing sky, blue as the eye of love, | |
| And my own tender green! | 40 |
| |
| And yet my branches spread, a kingly sight, | |
| In the close prison of the drooping air; | |
| When sun-vexed noons are at their fiery height | |
| My shade is broad, and there | |
| |
| Come city toilers, who their hour of ease | 45 |
| Weave out to precious seconds as they lie | |
| Pillowed on horny hands, to hear the breeze | |
| Through my great branches die. | |
| |
| I see no flowers, but as the children race | |
| With noise and clamour through the dusty street, | 50 |
| I see the bud of many an angel face, | |
| I hear their merry feet. | |
| |
| No violets look up, but, shy and grave, | |
| The children pause and lift their crystal eyes | |
| To where my emerald branches call and wave | 55 |
| As to the mystic skies. | |
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