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1868
AMONG THE TREES
by William Cullen Bryant
AMONG THE TREES -
Oh ye who love to overhang the springs
And stand by running watersye whose boughs
Make beautiful the rocks o'er which they play
Who pile with foliage the great hillsand rear
A paradise upon the lonely plain
Trees of the forestand the open field!
Have ye no sense of being? Does the air
The pure airwhich I breathe with gladnesspass
In gushes o'er your delicate lungsyour leaves
All unenjoyed? When on your winter's sleep
The sun shines warmhave ye no dreams of spring?
And when the glorious spring-time comes at last
Have ye no joy of all your bursting buds
And fragrant bloomsand melody of birds
To which your young leaves shiver? Do ye strive
And wrestle with the windyet know it not?
Feel ye no glory in your strength when he
The exhausted Blustererflies beyond the hills
And leaves you stronger yet? Or have ye not
A sense of loss when he has stripped your leaves
Yet tenderand has splintered your fair boughs?
Does the loud bolt that smites you from the cloud
And rends youfall unfelt? Do there not run
Strange shudderings through your fibres when the axe
Is raised against youand the shining blade
Deals blow on blowuntil with all their boughs
Your summits waver and ye fall to earth?
Know ye no sadness when the hurricane
Has swept the wood and snapped its sturdy stems
Asunderor has wrenchedfrom out the soil
The mightiest with their circles of strong roots
And piled the ruin all along his path? -
Naydoubt we not that under the rough rind
In the green veins of these fair growths of earth
There dwells a nature that receives delight
From all the gentle processes of life
And shrinks from loss of being. Dim and faint
May be the sense of pleasure and of pain
As in our dreams; buthaplyreal still. -
Our sorrows touch you not. We watch beside
The beds of those who languish or who die
And minister in sadnesswhile our hearts
Offer perpetual prayer for life and ease
And health to the beloved sufferers.
But yewhile anxious fear and fainting hope
Are in our chambersye rejoice without.
The funeral goes forth; a silent train
Moves slowly from the desolate home; our hearts
Are breaking as we lay away the loved
Whom we shall see no morein their last rest
Their little cells within the burial-place.
Ye have no part in this distress; for still
The February sunshine steeps your boughs
And tints the buds and swells the leaves within;
While the song-sparrowwarbling from her perch
Tells you that spring is near. The wind of May
Is sweet with breath of orchardsin whose boughs
The bees and every insect of the air
Make a perpetual murmur of delight
And by whose flowers the humming-bird hangs poised
In airand draws their sweets and darts away.
The lindenin the fervors of July
Hums with a louder concert. When the wind
Sweeps the broad forest in its summer prime
As when some master-hand exulting sweeps
The keys of some great organye give forth
The music of the woodland depthsa hymn
Of gladness and of thanks. The hermit-thrust
Pipes his sweet note to make your arches ring;
The faithful robinfrom the wayside elm
Carols all day to cheer his siting mate;
And when the autumn comesthe kings of earth
In all their majestyare not arrayed
As ye areclothing the broad mountain-side
And spotting the smooth vales with red and gold;
Whileswaying to the sudden breezeye fling
Your nuts to earthand the brisk squirrel comes
To gather themand barks with childish glee
And scampers with them to his hollow oak. -
Thusas the seasons passye keep alive
The cheerfulness of Naturetill in time
The constant misery which wrings the heart
Relentsand we rejoice with you again
And glory in your beauty; till once more
We look with pleasure on your varnished leaves
That gayly glance in sunshineand can hear
Delightedthe soft answer which your boughs
Utter in whispers to the babbling brook. -
Ye have no history. I cannot know
Whowhen the hillside trees were hewn away
Haply two centuries sincebade spare this oak
Leaning to shadewith his irregular arms
Low-bent and longthe fount that from his roots
Slips through a bed of cresses toward the bay-
I know not whobut thank him that he left
The tree to flourish where the acorn fell
And join these later days to that far time
While yet the Indian hunter drew the bow
In the dim woodsand the white woodman first
Opened these fields to sunshineturned the soil
And strewed the wheat. An unremembered Past
Broodslike a presencemid the long gray boughs
Of this old treewhich has outlived so long
The flitting generations of mankind. -
Ye have no history. I ask in vain
Who planted on the slope this lofty group
Of ancient pear-trees that with spring-time burst
Into such breadth of bloom. One bears a scar
Where the quick lightning scored its trunkyet still
It feels the breath of Springand every May
Is white with blossoms. Who it was that laid
Their infant roots in earthand tenderly
Cherished the delicate spraysI ask in vain
Yet bless the unknown hand to which I owe
This annual festival of beesthese songs
Of birds within their leafy screenthese shouts
Of joy from children gathering up the fruit
Shaken in August from the willing boughs. -
Ye that my hands have plantedor have spared
Beside the wayor in the orchard-ground
Or in the open meadowye whose boughs
With every summer spread a wider shade
Whose herd in coming years shall lie at rest
Beneath your noontide shelter? who shall pluck
Your ripened fruit? who graveas was the wont
Of simple pastoral ageson the rind
Of my smooth beeches some beloved name?
Idly I ask; yet may the eyes that look
Upon youin your laternobler growth
Look also on a nobler age than ours;
An age whenin the eternal strife between
Evil and Goodthe Power of Good shall win
A grander mastery; when kings no more
Shall summon millions from the plough to learn
The trade of slaughterand of populous realms
Make camps of war; when in our younger land
The hand of ruffian Violencethat now
Is insolently raised to smiteshall fall
Unnerved before the calm rebuke of Law
And Fraudhis sly confederateshrink in shame
Back to his covertand forego his prey. - -
THE END