TREES
by: Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)
I THINK that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
"Trees" was originally published in Trees and Other Poems. Joyce Kilmer. New York: George H. Doran Company, 1914.
Getting stuff organised for an advertising feature is one of the less glamourous jobs in regional journalism (give me a mo on the glamourous ones) but occasionally there are compensations, like this pic for an 'Electrical Innovations' feature in tomorrow's paper.
And to go with it, a salutary tale from the poet with the unlikeliest name . . [sorry about the breaks - please create your own gaps . . .]
Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew-treeWilliam Wordsworth (1795)
Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands near the lake of Esthwaite, on a desolate part of the shore, commanding a beautiful prospect.Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely Yew-tree stands
Far from all human dwelling: what if here
No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb?
What if the bee love not these barren boughs?
Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves,That break against the shore, shall lull thy mindBy one soft impulse saved from vacancy.--------------------Who he wasThat piled these stones and with the mossy sodFirst covered, and here taught this aged TreeWith its dark arms to form a circling bower,I well remember.--He was one who ownedNo common soul. In youth by science nursed,And led by nature into a wild sceneOf lofty hopes, he to the world went forthA favoured Being, knowing no desireWhich genius did not hallow; ’gainst the taintOf dissolute tongues, and jealousy, and hate,And scorn,--against all enemies prepared,All but neglect. The world, for so it thought,Owed him no service; wherefore he at onceWith indignation turned himself away,And with the food of pride sustained his soulIn solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughsHad charms for him; and here he loved to sit,His only visitants a straggling sheep,The stone-chat, or the glancing sand-piper:And on these barren rocks, with fern and heath,And juniper and thistle, sprinkled o’er,Fixing his downcast eye, he many an hourA morbid pleasure nourished, tracing hereAn emblem of his own unfruitful life:And, lifting up his head, he then would gazeOn the more distant scene,--how lovely ’tisThou seest,--and he would gaze till it becameFar lovelier, and his heart could not sustainThe beauty, still more beauteous! Nor, that time,When nature had subdued him to herself,Would he forget those Beings to whose minds,Warm from the labours of benevolence,The world, and human life, appeared a sceneOf kindred loveliness: then he would sigh,Inly disturbed, to think that others feltWhat he must never feel: and so, lost Man!On visionary views would fancy feed,Till his eye streamed with tears. In this deep valeHe died,--this seat his only monument.If Thou be one whose heart the holy formsOf young imagination have kept pure,Stranger! henceforth be warned; and know that pride,Howe’er disguised in its own majesty,Is littleness; that he, who feels contemptFor any living thing, hath facultiesWhich he has never used; that thought with himIs in its infancy. The man whose eyeIs ever on himself doth look on one,The least of Nature’s works, one who might moveThe wise man to that scorn which wisdom holdsUnlawful, ever. O be wiser, Thou!Instructed that true knowledge leads to love;True dignity abides with him aloneWho, in the silent hour of inward thought,Can still suspect, and still revere himselfIn lowliness of heart.
