Poems (Chitwood)/The Maple Tree
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THE MAPLE TREE.
Oh, the maple tree, the maple tree,
It hath a whisper that speaks to me;
There arc many trees on the forest's breast,
But of any and all, from cast to west,
The sugar maple I love the best.
Oh, the maple tree, the maple tree,
It hath a whisper that comes to me
When the leaves bud out, in the early spring,
And the moss grows bright, and the thrushes sing,
And bees sweep by with humming wing,
And shy flowers bloom in silent dells;
Where lilies keep time, with their golden bells,
To the song of the breeze as he stoops to woo,
Half in earnest and half untrue;
Where the violets blue, in love with the dew,
Live their sweet life of sunshine through;
And from their sleep the waters creep,—
Afraid, at first, then bound away,
Fetterless, glad as a lamb at play.
Oh, the maple tree, the maple tree,
It hath a whisper that speaks to me,—
That tells of a girl with golden hair,
Whose lips, like the summer roses are,
In the time of June, when the maiden moon
Singeth her visible, voiceless tune.
That stood, 'neath the boughs of the maple tree,
In the dear old sugar camp, with me,—
When the fire flashed bright 'neath the kettle, at night,
Lighting the woods with a crimson light,
And the circling eddies of golden foam
Were sweet and rich as the honey-comb;
And the grand old woods were a solemn dome,
Illumed by the stars, its censer the flowers,
Its organ the winds of the midnight hours;
The worshipers, trees, that to the sky
Lifted their dark, dark arms on high,
While every leaf breathed forth a sigh,
'Till our hearts shook with a chilling fear,
And ghostly footsteps we seemed to hear.
O maple tree, O maple tree,
Thou hath a whisper that haunteth me;
For thou didst stand by the homestead wall,
Near the dash of the silvery waterfall:
Thy leaves fell then on the mossy sill,—
Thy leaves, dear tree,—and they fall there still.
But the gladsome child that lingered there
Is moaning in sorrow, otherwhere;—
Hath felt the gloom of life settle down;
Hath braided of sorrow its thorniest crown;
Hath stood o'er the grave of love that was true,
And the false, dead love of the living, too;
Hath felt the clasp of the parting hand;
Hath walked by the edge of the unknown land:
And the hope and the fear, the smile and the tear,
Hath known—'tis the doom of the dweller here.
O maple tree, O maple tree,
Quick as a thought thou leadest me
To the clear, soft, witching light that plays
Over the grave of buried days.
And 'neath thy branches I sit me down,
Wearing thy leaves as a lethe crown;—
Forgetting the struggles, the sighs, the tears
That are folded up in the arms of years;
And casting the pride from my aching heart,
The mask from the brow that hides its smart,
Rending the sordid links apart
That fetter me down to the false world's art;—
Forgetting all that the crowd hath taught—
"Measure for measure, and naught for naught."
Count by heart the golden hours,
And time, by the folding up of flowers,
Love, by its quiet, star-like shine,
And truth by the clear eyes meeting mine,—
And all, all things by that placid sky
That shines, like an angel's robe, on high,
Before we have learned the world's great lie;
Before the serpent, with his hiss too sweet,
Hath crept with his shining by our feet.—
For the dream of truth, though dream it be,
I bless thee, I thank thee, O maple tree.
It hath a whisper that speaks to me;
There arc many trees on the forest's breast,
But of any and all, from cast to west,
The sugar maple I love the best.
Oh, the maple tree, the maple tree,
It hath a whisper that comes to me
When the leaves bud out, in the early spring,
And the moss grows bright, and the thrushes sing,
And bees sweep by with humming wing,
And shy flowers bloom in silent dells;
Where lilies keep time, with their golden bells,
To the song of the breeze as he stoops to woo,
Half in earnest and half untrue;
Where the violets blue, in love with the dew,
Live their sweet life of sunshine through;
And from their sleep the waters creep,—
Afraid, at first, then bound away,
Fetterless, glad as a lamb at play.
Oh, the maple tree, the maple tree,
It hath a whisper that speaks to me,—
That tells of a girl with golden hair,
Whose lips, like the summer roses are,
In the time of June, when the maiden moon
Singeth her visible, voiceless tune.
That stood, 'neath the boughs of the maple tree,
In the dear old sugar camp, with me,—
When the fire flashed bright 'neath the kettle, at night,
Lighting the woods with a crimson light,
And the circling eddies of golden foam
Were sweet and rich as the honey-comb;
And the grand old woods were a solemn dome,
Illumed by the stars, its censer the flowers,
Its organ the winds of the midnight hours;
The worshipers, trees, that to the sky
Lifted their dark, dark arms on high,
While every leaf breathed forth a sigh,
'Till our hearts shook with a chilling fear,
And ghostly footsteps we seemed to hear.
O maple tree, O maple tree,
Thou hath a whisper that haunteth me;
For thou didst stand by the homestead wall,
Near the dash of the silvery waterfall:
Thy leaves fell then on the mossy sill,—
Thy leaves, dear tree,—and they fall there still.
But the gladsome child that lingered there
Is moaning in sorrow, otherwhere;—
Hath felt the gloom of life settle down;
Hath braided of sorrow its thorniest crown;
Hath stood o'er the grave of love that was true,
And the false, dead love of the living, too;
Hath felt the clasp of the parting hand;
Hath walked by the edge of the unknown land:
And the hope and the fear, the smile and the tear,
Hath known—'tis the doom of the dweller here.
O maple tree, O maple tree,
Quick as a thought thou leadest me
To the clear, soft, witching light that plays
Over the grave of buried days.
And 'neath thy branches I sit me down,
Wearing thy leaves as a lethe crown;—
Forgetting the struggles, the sighs, the tears
That are folded up in the arms of years;
And casting the pride from my aching heart,
The mask from the brow that hides its smart,
Rending the sordid links apart
That fetter me down to the false world's art;—
Forgetting all that the crowd hath taught—
"Measure for measure, and naught for naught."
Count by heart the golden hours,
And time, by the folding up of flowers,
Love, by its quiet, star-like shine,
And truth by the clear eyes meeting mine,—
And all, all things by that placid sky
That shines, like an angel's robe, on high,
Before we have learned the world's great lie;
Before the serpent, with his hiss too sweet,
Hath crept with his shining by our feet.—
For the dream of truth, though dream it be,
I bless thee, I thank thee, O maple tree.