  Long years ago in childhood's hour. Beneath an old Beech Tree, A sweeter and a daintier flower Than ever graced a lea, Unfolded all its beauteous bloom And shed its rich and rare perfume Alone, alone for me. The dewdrop sparkling on the rose Is fresh and fair to see; I love the lily when it blows And rocks the cradled bee; But fairer than the diamond dew Or lily, was the flower that grew Beneath the old Beech Tree. Rose-petaled with a golden fringe, And calyx to agree; A dash of sea-foam and a tinge Of sky in harmony; The subtile perfume sunny smiles, And sunnier love, though but a child's, Beneath an old Beech Tree. One morn I sought the cooling shade With heart as light and free As snowy whitecap ever played Upon the bounding sea; But she, the fairy child, was gone,— The flower that grew for me alone— Beneath the old Beech Tree. The brooks still ran the hills among And babbled on in glee; The birds still mated, loved and sung In tuneful melody: But all the soul of song was lost; My flower had withered with the frost Beneath the old Beech Tree. The years ran on in golden sands For lovers rapidly; The flowers waved their magic wands And smiled still joyously: But love's enchanting power was gone For me whom Death had left alone Beneath the old Beech Tree. The moonlight sifting through the leaves Fell soft and silvery, As threads that sly Arachne weaves With artful modesty; It fell and wove a mystic veil About her face; my cheek grew pale Beneath the Chestnut Tree. A breathless moment, all was still; A deep solemnity Hung over earth,—and then a thrill Of love and mystery— An odor of a rare perfume, The sweetest flower that e'er did bloom Beneath the Chestnut Tree! The brooks now run the hills among And babble on in glee; For love brought back the soul of song Beneath the Chestnut Tree;— Brought back, while moonlit breezes blew The sweetest flower that ever grew, Alone, alone for me. |
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