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"When in the Woods I Wander" 1399

Still on the seeds of all he made
The rose of beauty burns; '

Through times that wear and forms that fade,

Immortal youth returns.

The black ducks mounting from the lake,

The pigeon in the pines,

The bittern's boom, a desert make

Which no false art refines.

Down in yon watery nook,

Where bearded mists divide,

The gray old gods whom Chaos knew,
The sires of Nature, hide.

Aloft, in secret veins of air,

Blows the sweet breath of song,
O, few to scale those uplands dare,
Though they to all belong!

See thou bring not to field or stone
The fancies found in books;

Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own,
To brave the landscape's looks.

Oblivion here thy wisdom is,

Thy thrift, the sleep of cares;

For a proud idleness like this

Crowns all thy mean affairs.

Ralph Waldo Emerson [1803-1882]

"WHEN IN THE WOODS I WANDER ALL ALONE"

WHEN in the woods I wander all alone,

The woods that are my solace and delight,

Which I more covet than a prince's throne,

My toil by day and canopy by night;

(Light heart, light foot, light food, and slumber light,
These lights shall light us to old age's gate,
While monarchs, whom rebellious dreams affright,
Heavy with fear, death's fearful summons wait;)

Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone,
Weighing in thought the world's no-happiness.
I cannot choose but wonder at its moan,
Since so plain joys the woody life can bless:
Then live who may where honied words prevail.
I with the deer, and with the nightingale!

Edward Hotell-Thurlow (1781-1820)

ASPECTS OF THE PINES

TALL, somber, grim, against the morning sky
They rise, scarce touched by melancholy airs,
Which stir the fadeless foliage dreamfully,

As if from realms of mystical despairs.

Tall, somber, grim, they stand with dusky gleams Brightening to gold within the woodland's core, Beneath the gracious noontide's tranquil beams.— But the weird winds of morning sigh no more.

A stillness, strange, divine, ineffable,

Broods round and o'er them in the wind's surcease, And on each tinted copse and shimmering dell Rests the mute rapture of deep hearted peace.

Last, sunset comes-the solemn joy and might Borne from the West when cloudless day declinesLow, flute-like breezes sweep the waves of light, And, lifting dark green tresses of the pines,

Till every lock is luminous, gently float,

Fraught with hale odors up the heavens afar, To faint when twilight on her virginal throat Wears for a gem the tremulous vesper star.

Paul Hamilton Hayne [1830–1886]

"THE WOODS THAT BRING THE SUNSET NEAR"

THE wind from out the west is blowing;
The homeward-wandering cows are lowing;
Dark grow the pine-woods, dark and drear,-
The woods that bring the sunset near,

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We plant the spire that out-towers the crag,
We plant the staff for our country's flag,
We plant the shade, from the hot sun free;
We plant all these when we plant the tree.
Henry Abbey [1842-1911]

THE TREE

I LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear,
And one by one their tender leaves unfold,
As if they knew that warmer suns were near,
Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold;
And when with darker growth thy leaves are seen
To veil from view the early robin's nest,

I love to lie beneath thy waving screen,

With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppressed;
And when the autumn winds have stripped thee bare,
And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow,
When naught is thine that made thee once so fair,

I love to watch thy shadowy form below,

And through thy leafless arms to look above

On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.

Jones Very [1813-1880]

THE BRAVE OLD OAK

A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak,

Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;

Here's health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong.

There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out;

And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.

Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!

In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,

Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet,

To gather the dew of May.

And on that day to the rebeck gay

They frolicked with lovesome swains;

They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree it still remains.

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes

Were a merry sound to hear,

When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.
Now gold hath sway we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he;

But he never shall send our ancient friend

To be tossed on the stormy sea.

Henry Fothergill Chorley [1808-1872]

"THE GIRT WOAK TREE THAT'S IN THE DELL "

THE girt woak tree that's in the dell!
There's noo tree I do love so well;

Vor times an' times when I wer young,

I there've a-climbed, an' there've a-zwung,

An' picked the eäcorns green, a-shed
In wrestlèn storms vrom his broad head.
An' down below's the cloty brook

Where I did vish with line an' hook,
An' beät, in playsome dips and zwims,
The foamy stream, wi' white-skinned lim's.
An' there my mother nimbly shot
Her knittèn-needles, as she zot
At evenen down below the wide
Woak's head, wi' father at her zide.
An' I've a-played wi' many a bwoy,
That's now a man an' gone awoy;

Zoo I do like noo tree so well

'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

"The Girt Woak Tree in the Dell" 1405

An' there, in leäter years, I roved
Wi' thik poor maïd I fondly loved,-
The maïd too feäir to die so soon,—
When evenen twilight, or the moon,
Cast light enough 'ithin the pleäce
To show the smiles upon her feäce,
Wi' eyes so clear's the glassy pool,
An' lips an' cheäks so soft as wool.
There han' in han', wi' bosoms warm,
Wi' love that burned but thought noo harm,
Below the wide-boughed tree we passed
The happy hours that went too vast;
An' though she'll never be my wife,
She's still my leaden stär o' life.
She's gone: an' she've a-left to me
Her mem'ry in the girt woak tree;
Zoo I do love noo tree so well

'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.

An' oh! mid never ax nor hook

Be brought to spweil his steätely look;
Nor ever roun' his ribby zides

Mid cattle rub ther heairy hides;

Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep

His lwonesome sheäde vor harmless sheep;
An' let en grow, an' let en spread,
An' let en live when I be dead.
But oh! if men should come an' vell
The girt woak tree that's in the dell,
An' build his planks 'ithin the zide
O'zome girt ship to plough the tide,
Then, life or death! I'd goo to sea,
A sailèn wi' the girt woak tree:
An' I upon his planks would stand,
An' die a-fightèn vor the land,-
The land so dear,—the land so free,--
The land that bore the girt woak tree;
Vor I do love noo tree so well

'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell.
William Barnes [1801-1886]

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