THE little aspen tree stands high Upon the hill that guards the lane; Her leaves are green as emeralds, Her prattle is like dancing rain. She gossips to the wind, the sky, And we are comrades, she and I. I climb the hill at evenfall; She stands so high she may look down And whisper me if you have turned The winding highway from the town, And in the wind's arm bend to see And murmur that you haste to me; And with her hundred voices tell Each step you take to reach my side, And laugh in merry mockery, Pretend to scold and weep and chide, And stand a moment mute in grief, Then laugh with every rustling leaf. And when at last you take my hands And call my name, in mimicry She chatters it a dozen times; And then in gay and elfish glee Attunes her happy leaves to this -- The lisping cadence of a kiss. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF SWINBURNE by SARA TEASDALE THYESTES, ACT 2: CHORUS by LUCIUS ANNAEUS SENECA PREPARATORY MEDITATIONS, 1ST SERIES: 8 by EDWARD TAYLOR JOHN THE BAPTIST by JOHN STUART BLACKIE THE WANDERER: 5. IN HOLLAND: FAILURE by EDWARD ROBERT BULWER-LYTTON |