Classic and Contemporary Poetry
UNDER THE TREES, by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH Poet's Biography First Line: The wonderful, strong, angelic trees Last Line: Come now, let 's tell the tale beneath the old roof-tree. Subject(s): Trees | ||||||||
THE wonderful, strong, angelic trees, With their blowing locks and their bared great knees And nourishing bosoms, shout all together, And rush and rock through the glad wild weather. They are so old they teach me, With their strong hands they reach me, Into their breast my soul they take, And keep me there for wisdom's sake. They teach me little prayers; To-day I am their child; The sweet breath of their innocent airs Blows through me strange and wild. So many things they know, So learned with the ebb and flow By which the seasons come and go. Still the forefather stands With unforgetting eyes, Forever holding in his tranquil hands The fruit that makes us wise. So many things they bear, Whisperings small and dear! The little lizard has a voice clear, Squirrel and mole. A wild and pleasant speech Our Lord has given to each. Dear masters, pray you teach The language of the woodchuck in his hole. So many things they praise In earnest, worshipful ways, The Little Moment and the Ancient of Days. To one they yield a flower That blossoms for an hour; The other they praise with all their singing blood That they so long have stood. So many things they love. The frail ecstatic gnats that move Like planets whirling in a sky, These do they lean above Even like Heaven, while they flame and die. Here are our neighbors, the good weeds, And, look you, all the brown industrious seeds With busy workmanship achieve Green citadels of grass, And minarets and domes of shining flowers. Absorbed and radiant, perpetually they pass. The little workers with their subtle powers Lay their foundations in the sod, While the tree, that knows all from so long ago, Watches the busy weaving to and fro, And smiles on them like God. Now I am brave again, Strong again and pure. I have washed my spirit clean of men, I am established, sure. I have drunk the waters of delight From fountains that endure Yes, I have bathed my soul Where the rushing leaves carouse. I have drunk the air that freely flows And washes their green boughs. I never feel afraid Among the trees; Of trees are houses made; And even with these, Unhewn, untouched, unseen, Is something homelike in the safe sweet green, Intimate in the shade. Something remembered haunts me, A familiar aspect suddenly enchants me; These things were so When I was here, hundreds of years ago. Oh, not to-day have I the first time seen This pool of sunshine, this bending green, This knotted soil, and underneath the stone The small gray water singing all alone. But when my naked soul came wandering down On the pilgrimage, kind hands did succor me And clothed me in the guise of grass or soil, Or a gnat maybe! Making me a shelter Of root or stone! For surely in their eyes I see a look of query and surmise, A begging for love, As humble parents look upon a child Returned more wise than they And strive with all they know to please him so That he will stay. Ah, he has traveled far, and many years been gone, Yet still he is their son, their son, their son My wistful kinsfolk, I will not forget Your simple patois! Oh, 't were shame on me To grow oblivious to my father's speech! But I will go With men, yes, with the angels, slipping so Into the old vernacular! They will smile To hear the sweet provincialisms come With tender thoughts of home. And God Himself When I am praising Him, with the great mirth And radiant ceremonials, will be kind, That even His Heaven has not rid my mind Of the quaint customs of my native earth. We are all brothers! Come, let 's rest awhile In the great kinship. Underneath the trees Let's be at home once more, with birds and bees And gnats and soil and stone. With these I must Acknowledge family ties. Our mother, the dust, With wistful and investigating eyes Searches my soul for the old sturdiness, Valor, simplicity! Stout virtues these, We learned at her dear knees. Friend, you and I Once played together in the good old days. Do you remember? Why, brother, down what wild ways We traveled, when -- That 's right! Draw close to me! Come now, let 's tell the tale beneath the old roof-tree. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PROBLEM OF DESCRIBING TREES by ROBERT HASS THE GREEN CHRIST by ANDREW HUDGINS MIDNIGHT EDEN by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN REFLECTION OF THE WOOD by LEONIE ADAMS THE LIFE OF TREES by DORIANNE LAUX SONGS FOR MY MOTHER: 2. HER HANDS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |
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