  What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade is his! There needs no crown to mark the forest's king; How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss! Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring, Which he, with such benignant royalty Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent; All nature seems his vassal proud to be, And cunning only for his ornament. • • • • • So, from oft converse with life's wintry gales, Should man learn how to clasp with tougher roots The inspiring earth—how otherwise avails The leaf-creating sap that sunward shoots? So every year that falls with noiseless flake, Should fill old scars up on the stormward side, And make hoar age revered for age's sake, Not for traditions of earth's leafy pride. —Lowell. "Had I wist," quoth Spring to the swallow, "That earth could forget me, kissed By summer, and lured to follow Down ways that I know not, I, My heart should have waxed not high, Mid-March would have seen me die, Had I wist." "Had I wist, O Spring," said the swallow, "That hope was a sunlit mist, And the faint, light heart of it hollow, Thy woods had not heard me sing; Thy winds had not known my wing; It had faltered ere thine did, Spring, Had I wist." —Swinburne. |
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