"When in the Woods I Wander" 1399 Still on the seeds of all he made 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, Aloft, in secret veins of air, Blows the sweet breath of song, See thou bring not to field or stone Leave authors' eyes, and fetch your own, 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, Whilst here I wander, pleased to be alone, Edward Hotell-Thurlow (1781-1820) ASPECTS OF THE PINES TALL, somber, grim, against the morning sky 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; We plant the spire that out-towers the crag, THE TREE I LOVE thee when thy swelling buds appear, I love to lie beneath thy waving screen, With limbs by summer's heat and toil oppressed; 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, There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down, And he showeth his might on a wild midnight, Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak, In the days of old, when the spring with cold 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 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! 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 Where I did vish with line an' hook, 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 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. An' oh! mid never ax nor hook Be brought to spweil his steätely look; Mid cattle rub ther heairy hides; Nor pigs rout up his turf, but keep His lwonesome sheäde vor harmless sheep; 'S the girt woak tree that's in the dell. |