They never did aught of harm,

But scattered their perfume out to the breeze,

And sheltered the birds from the storm.

For an age they have stood on the town’s outer meads,

The skirmish and battle have braved;

Alike they have gazed on the war’s bloody deeds,

And the white flag of peace as it waved.

But you cut them away! my pleading is vain!

In their shade moves the carpenter’s hands,

I watched him to-day as he leveled his plane,

And he spoke of the architect’s plans.

Then a wave of distress in my heart flowed anew,

For dearly I love each old tree;

Ah me! many secrets are hidden from you

That the apple trees whispered to me.

I used to go by, and the sweet morning air,

Like incense, arose from the spot,

It would crowd from my heart some pain gnawing there,

While the world with its cares was forgot.

Here, I’ve heard the first news of the blue bird and dove,

And the round, silver note of the thrush,

A concert, with sweet variations of love,

Seemed pouring from tree and from bush.

I walked there to-day; as an accent profane

That falls on the heart and the ear,

I heard the harsh echo of hammer and plane,

And the pant of a mill in the rear.

So I muffled my face with the veil that I wore—

Time, that moment of pain can’t appease;

Unless like the birds from the scene I can soar,

And like them, forget the old trees.