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Part 2 of Poet-Trees - DHTML page. Note: Medium Font Size is required. Do not use Back Buttons. Use the green arrows only. |
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| Poem 2 | |
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| Poem 3 | |
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| Poem 4 | |
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| Poem 5 | |
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| Poem 6 | |
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| Poem 7 | |
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| Poem 8 | |
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| Poem 9 | |
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| Poem 10 (of 16) | |
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| Poem 11 | |
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| Poem 12 | |
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| Poem 13 | |
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| Poem 14 | |
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| Poem 15 | |
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| Poem 16 | |
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What does he plant who plants a tree? He plants the friend of sun and sky; He plants the flag of breezes free; The shaft of beauty, towering high; He plants a home to heaven anigh For song and mother-croon of bird In hushed and happy twilight heard - The treble of heaven's harmony These things he plants who plants a tree. Henry Cuyler Bunner, the Heart of the Tree |
| Poem 1 (of 16) |
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We had set up camp beside the only tree for miles, and a cricket was singing somewhere deep within its thorny branches. Apart from that noise and the sputtering of the flames, the world was soundless, without even a wisp of wind; it seethed with silence. In this stillness, I could see, lay the fruitfulness of the desert that mystics had found across many ages. ... continue poem 2... (click) |
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It calmed the soul and made it possible to fix the attention at any point one chose without distraction. I wished, that evening, I could remain in that spot, motionless, until I had so absorbed the desert's balm that something unknown to me dawned upon my understanding. Lying there at peace, one felt so close to a brink of revelation that it seemed almost within willpower. But not quite. Not on this journey. Geoffrey Moorhouse, The Fearful Void Part One |
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Let my soul, a shining tree, Silver branches lift towards thee, Where on a hallowed winter's night The clear-eyed angels may alight. And if there should be tempests in My spirit, let them surge like din Of noble melodies at war; With fervour of such blades of triumph as are Flashed in white orisons of saints who go On shafts of glory to the ecstasies they know. Siegfried Sassoon, Tree and Sky |
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Huge Elm thy rifted trunk all notched and scarred Like to a warrior's destiny - I love To stretch me often on such shadowed sward And hear the sighs of summer leaves above Or on thy buttressed roots to sit and lean In careless attitude and there reflect On times and deeds and darings that have been Old cast aways now swallowed in neglect While thou art towering in thy strength of heart Stirring the soul to vain imaginings In which life's sordid being hath no part The wind in that eternal ditty sings Humming of future things that burns the mind To leave some fragment of itself behind. John Clare, Salter's Tree |
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Much can they praise the trees so straight and high, The sailing pine,the cedar proud and tall, The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry, The builder oak, sole king of forests all, The aspin good for staves, the cypress funeral, The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors And poets sage, the fir that weepest still, The yew obedient to the bender's will, The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill, The myrrh sweet-bleeding in the bitter wound, The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill, The fruitful olive, and the platane round, The carver holm, the maple seldom inward sound. Edmund Spenser, Faerie Queene |
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This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms. Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest. ... continue poem 6... (click) |
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This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the huntsman? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers, men whose lives glided on Iike rivers that water the woodlands, darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven? Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, A Tale of Acadie Part One |
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By the lakes that thus outspread their sad waters, sad and chilly,
With the snows of the lolling lily, by the mountains - near the river, Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever, By the grey woods, by the swamp, where the toad and newt encamp, by the dismal tarns and pools, where dwell the Gouls. By each spot the most unholy, by each nook most melancholy, there the traveller meets, aghast, sheeted memories of the Past. Shrouded forms that start and sigh, as they pass the wanderer by. White-robed forms of friends long given; In agony, to the Earth - and Heaven. Edgar Allen Poe, Dreamland |
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Peace to these little broken leaves, That strew our common ground; That chase their tails, like silly dogs, As they go round and round. For though in winter boughs are bare, Let us not once forget Their summer glory, when these leaves Caught the great Sun in their strong net; And made him, in the lower air, Tremble - no bigger than a star! W.H. Davies, Leaves |
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When the long, varnished buds of beech Point out beyond their reach, And tanned by summer suns Leaves of bright bryony turn bronze, And gossamer floats bright and wet From trees that are their own sunset, Spring, summer, autumn I come here, And what is there to fear? And yet I never lose the feeling That someone else behind is stealing Or else in front has disappeared; Though nothing I have seen or heard, Makes me still walk beneath these boughs With cautious step as in a haunted house. Andrew Young, The Birchwood |
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How innocent were these Trees, that in
Mist-green May, blown by a prospering breeze, Stood garlanded and gay; Who now in sundown glow Of serious colour clad confront me with their show As though resigned and sad, Trees, who unwhispering stand umber, bronze, gold; Pavilioning the land for one grown tired and old; Elm, chestnut, aspen and pine, I am merged in you, Who tell once more in tones of time, Your foliaged farewell. Siegfried Sassoon, October Trees |
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The beauty of the trees, the softness of the air, the fragrance of the grass, speaks to me. The summit of the mountain, the thunder of the sky, speaks to me. The faintness of the stars, the trail of the sun, the strength of fire, and the life that never goes away, they speak to me. And my heart soars. Chief Dan George |
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Ay me! ay me! the woods decay and fall; The vapours weep their burthen to the ground. Man comes and tills the earth and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit, Here at the quiet limit of the world. A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream, The ever silent spaces of the East. Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alfred Lord Tennyson, Tithonus |
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I'm going to plant a heart in the earth water it with love from a vein I'm going to praise it with the push of muscle and care for it in the sound of all dimensions. I'm going to leave a heart in the earth so it may grow and flower a heart that throbs with longing that adores everything green that will be strength and nourishment for birds that will be the sap of plants and mountains Rosario Murillo |
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I part the out thrusting branches and come in beneath the blessed and the blessing trees. Though I am silent There is singing around me. Though I am dark there is vision around me. Though I am heavy there is flight around me. Wendell Berry, |
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To learn how to die cut down a tree, Watch how so many years fall. You don't need to have planted it for it to be your life. You know countless trees have grown and will grow where this tree falls Everyone alive now will be underground and will have gone from roots, branches and leaves to roots, branches and leaves many times. ... continue poem 15... (click) |
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You've seen how the seed of a tree can rise from the pit of a stump. Wherever your feet touch earth you know you are touching where something has died or been born. Count the rings and stand on the stump and stretch your arms to the sky. Think only because it was cut down could you do this. You are standing where no one has stood but the dark inside a life that many years. ANTLER Part One |
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Now Talking God With your feet I walk With your limbs I walk I carry forth your body For me your mind thinks Your voice speaks for me Beauty is before me And beauty is behind me Above and below me hovers the beautiful I am surrounded by it I am immersed in it In my youth I am aware of it And in old age I shall walk quietly The beautiful trail. Native American Prayer |
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