Poet: Joyce Kilmer
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.
God's Garden Poem
Poet: Norman T. Schlechter
Trees seem to speak on windy days.
Sometimes I think they say,
"Though shadows ever come round us.
We look up and away."
"We love the stars and the beaming sky;
We never look below;
We trust in heaven to send us rain
And sun enough to grow."
Tree Quotes
Poet: E. A. Lehman
The trees have been keeping for many a year
A carnival time, ere the leaves are sere,
The Sour-wood put on his sweetest smile.
To show his good temper just once in a while;
His red leaves were glowing like crimson fire,
As the South Wind tried to arouse his ire.
Bold Boreas worried the Hickory trees
And made them as angry as they could be.
Their bright yellow leaves were skirling around
In the mellow sunlight, flecking the ground.
The Sweet-Gum had decked her with carven balls,
For the Brownies to play through the woodland halls;
They chatter and clatter, as football they play,
And grin at each other the live-long day.
Do you see the woodland nymphs as they dance.
Peering through the dim aisles, as they eye us askance,
Advancing, retreating, gliding soft and slow.
With twinkling feet, o'er the leaf-strewn floor?
The Sumach has spread out his crimson cones
To tempt the birds from their forest homes.
The Hawthorn berries, like rubies, gleam.
Against the leaves with their emerald sheen.
The Red Oak has flung his banner to the breeze,
He glitters and shines, like a king, 'mid the trees.
But the hectic flush of a swift decay
Marks them all for Death, and they may not stay.
The chill winds of November come wailing by.
And their golden splendor in ruins must lie.
The waning year does his best for us all.
Enriching each season with its fruits as they fall;
The corn, the tobacco, the golden grain,
The apples, the purpling grapes of the plain.
O New Year! we hail thee with radiant joy;
Bring us treasures and gifts without alloy;
We'll do our best with each passing day
To make a good record ere thou glidest away!
Poems About Leaves
Poet: George P. Morris
Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot:
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand -
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild-bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot:
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall hurt it not.
Poet: Robert Frost
I wonder about the trees.
Why do we wish to bear
Forever the noise of these
More than another noise
So close to our dwelling place?
We suffer them by the day
Till we lose all measure of pace,
And fixity in our joys,
And acquire a listening air.
They are that that talks of going
But never gets away;
And that talks no less for knowing,
As it grows wiser and older,
That now it means to stay.
My feet tug at the floor
And my head sways to my shoulder
Sometimes when I watch trees sway,
From the window or the door.
I shall set forth for somewhere,
I shall make the reckless choice
Some day when they are in voice
And tossing so as to scare
The white clouds over them on.
I shall have less to say,
But I shall be gone.
Poet: Charles Fenno Hoffman
Away to the forest, away, love, away!
My foam-champing courser reproves thy delay,
And the brooks are all calling, Away, love, away!
Away to the forest, my own love, with me!
Away where thro' checkered glade sports the wind free,
Where in the bosky dell
Watching young leaflets swell,
Spring on each floral bell
Counteth for thee
Away to the forest, away!
Away to the forest, away, love, away!
Each breath of the morning reproves thy delay;
Each shadow retiring beckons away!
Hark ! how the blue-bird's throat carolling o'er us
Chimes with the thrush's note floating before us!
Away then, my gentle one,
Thy voice is miss'd alone.
Away — let love's whisper'd tone
Swell the bright chorus.
Away to the forest, away!
by Po Chu-i
Trees growing—right in front of my window;
The trees are high and the leaves grow thick.
Sad alas! the distant mountain view
Obscured by this, dimly shows between.
One morning I took knife and axe;
With my own hand I lopped the branches off.
Ten thousand leaves fall about my head;
A thousand hills came before my eyes.
Suddenly, as when clouds or mists break
And straight through, the blue sky appears;
Again, like the face of a friend one has loved
Seen at last after an age of parting.
First there came a gentle wind blowing;
One by one the birds flew back to the tree.
To ease my mind I gazed to the South East;
As my eyes wandered, my thoughts went far away.
Of men there is none that has not some preference;
Of things there is none but mixes good with ill.
It was not that I did not love the tender branches;
But better still,—to see the green hills!
Poet: Ellwood Haines Stokes
The trees have voices, soft and soothing voices -
The lonely pine tree and the lordly oak;
Through lofty boughs the whispering wind rejoices,
And plaintive breeze-prayers, blessings still invoke.
The trees have voices, gently underlying
Earth's rude commotion, and this human strife,
So sweetly soft and almost sadly sighing,
Like holy movings of the inner life.
The trees have voices full of holy feeling,
Full of rich cadences in which we weep;
Such as came softly o*er the spirit stealing,
When we were cradled in our childhood sleep.
The trees have voices, soft and tender voices -
Voices that bless me like a healing balm;
The Lord speaks through them till the heart rejoices,
And the soul tempest sinks into a calm.
The trees have voices in their shady places,
Or where they dapple in the golden sun;
And laughing leaves behold soft love-lit faces
Where the cool brooks their winding courses run.
The trees have voices, how they talk together -
Brother with brother, in familiar tones;
They talk in sunshine and in stormy weather,
In soft, sweet love notes, or in muttered moans.
The trees have voices, mourning for the dying,
Some tender leaflet smitten by the blast;
Or sister leaves, that arm in arm were lying.
Together fall, and sleep in death at last.
They have their nuptials and their merry meetings,
Their joys and sorrows, births and funerals;
The high and low - each have their friendly greetings -
One rises up, and lo, another falls.
Now all is hushed, the trees are in devotion,
And now they clasp their hands in high refrain;
And now they're swaying like the storm-lashed ocean.
And now like dashings of the summer rain.
I see a shade of things that once were real,
But now all lost in time's mysterious past;
Once thought imperfect, now the bright ideal
Of the all-perfect I would have to last.
Why grasped I not these things as they were passing.
Why looked I then for better things to come;
Some blessed day that should have no harassing,
Such thornless flowers as bloomed in Eden*s home?
I hear sweet notes from out the green-leaved branches,
Like low soft whispers from among the blest;
While up to God the weary heart advances,
And gentle wood songs sing me into rest.
Poet: Hattie S. Russell
The oak is a strong and stalwart tree,
And it lifts its branches up,
And catches the dew right gallantly
In many a dainty cup;
And the world is brighter and better made
Because of the woodman's stroke,
Descending in sun, or falling in shade,
On the sturdy form of the oak.
But stronger, I ween, in apparel green,
And trappings so fair to see,
With its precious freight for small and great,
Is the beautiful Christmas Tree.
The elm is a kind and goodly tree,
With its branches bending low;
The heart is glad when its form we see,
And we list to the river's flow.
Ay, the heart is glad and the pulses bound,
And joy illumines the face,
Whenever a goodly elm is found,
Because of its beauty and grace.
But kinder, I ween, more goodly in mien,
With branches more drooping and free,
The tint of whose leaves fidelity weaves,
Is the beautiful Christmas Tree.
The maple is supple and lithe and strong,
And claimeth our love anew,
When the days are listless and quiet and long,
And the world is fair to view;
And later, as beauties and graces unfold,
A monarch right regally drest,
With streamers aflame, and pennons of gold,
It seemeth of all the best.
More lissome, I ween, the brightness and sheen,
And the coloring sunny and free,
And the banners soft, that are held aloft
By the beautiful Christmas Tree.
Christmas Tree Poems
Poet: Unknown
Children, have you seen the budding
Of the trees in valleys low?
Have you watched it creeping, creeping,
Up the mountain, soft and slow,
Weaving there a plush-like mantle,
Brownish, grayish, reddish, green,
Changing, changing, daily, hourly,
Till it smiles in emerald sheen?
Have you watched the shades so varied,
From the graceful little white birch.
Faint and tender, to the balsam's
Evergreen, so dark and rich?
Have you seen the quaint mosaics,
Gracing all the mountainsides,
Where they, mingling, intertwining,
Sway like softest mid-air tides?
Have you seen the autumn frostings,
Spread in all the leafage bright -
Frostings of the rarest color,
Red and yellow, dark and light?
Have you seen the glory painted
On the mountain, valley, hill,
When the landscape, all illumined,
Blazes forth his taste and skill?
Have you seen the foliage dropping.
Tender cling, as loth to leave
Mother trees that taught them deftly
All their warp and woof to weave?
Have you seen the leafless branches
Tossing wildly against the blue?
Have you seen the soft-gray beauty
Of their wintry garments' hue?
Have you thought the resurrection
Seen in nature year by year
Is a symbol of our rising
In a higher, holier sphere?
Children, ye are buds maturing;
Make your autumn rich and grand,
That your winter be a passage
Through the gates to glory-land.
Poet: William Cullen Bryant
Come, let us plant the apple-tree.
Cleave the tough greensward with the spade;
Wide let its hollow bed be made;
There gently lay the roots, and there
Sift the dark mold with kindly care.
And press it o'er them tenderly,
As round the sleeping infant's feet
We softly fold the cradle-sheet;
So plant we the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Buds, which the breath of summer days
Shall lengthen into leafy sprays;
Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast,
Shall haunt, and sing, and hide her nest;
We plant, upon the sunny lea,
A shadow for the noontide hour,
A shelter from the summer shower,
When we plant the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Sweets for a hundred flowery springs
To load the May-wind's restless wings,
When, from the orchard's row, he pours
Its fragrance through our open doors;
A world of blossoms for the bee,
Flowers for the sick girl's silent room,
For the glad infant sprigs of bloom,
We plant with the apple-tree.
What plant we in this apple-tree?
Fruits that shall swell in sunny June,
And redden in the August noon,
And drop, when gentle airs come by,
That fan the blue September sky,
While children come, with cries of glee,
And seek them where the fragrant grass
Betrays their bed to those who pass,
At the foot of the apple-tree.
And when, above this apple-tree,
The winter stars are quivering: bright,
And winds go howling through the night,
Girls, whose young eyes o'erflow with mirth,
Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth;
And guests in prouder homes shall see,
Heaped with the grape of Cintra's vine
And golden orange of the Line,
The fruit of the apple-tree.
The fruitage of this apple-tree
Winds and our flag of stripe and star
Shall bear to coasts that lie afar,
Where men shall wonder at the view,
And ask in what fair groves they grew;
And sojourners beyond the sea
Shall think of childhood's careless day
And long, long hours of summer play,
In the- shade of the apple-tree.
Each year shall give this apple-tree
A broader flush of roseate bloom,
A deeper maze of verdurous gloom,
And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower,
The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower.
The years shall come and pass, but we
Shall hear no longer, where we lie,
The summer's songs, the autumn's sigh.
In the boughs of the apple-tree.
And time shall waste this apple-tree.
Oh, when its aged branches throw
Thin shadows on the ground below,
Shall fraud and force and iron will
Oppress the weak and helpless still?
What shall the tasks of mercy be,
Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears
Of those who live when length of years
Is wasting this apple-tree?
"Who planted this old apple-tree?"
The children of that distant day
Thus to some aged man shall say;
And, gazing on its mossy stem,
The gray-haired man shall answer them:
"A poet of the land was he,
Born in the rude but good old times;
'Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes
On planting the apple-tree."
Poet: Catherine Pulsifer
Of the many things in life we take for granted
The trees we do, we don't appreciate
How they clean the air,
The shade they provide
And, the beauty of their leaves.
Next time you pass a tree
Stop and take a look and see
Be thankful God created so many
Different kinds for us to have.
Don't take the tree for granted
Poet: Jones Very
I love thee when thy swelling buds appear,
And one by one their tender leaves unfold,
As if they knew that warmer suns were near,
Nor longer sought to hide from winter's cold;
And, when with darker growth thy leaves are seen
To veil from view the early robin's nest,
I love to lie beneath thy waving screen,
With limbs by summer's heat and toil opprest;
And when the autumn's winds have stripped thee bare,
And round thee lies the smooth, untrodden snow,
When naught is thine that made thee once so fair,
I love to watch thy shadowy form below,
And through thy leafless arms to look above
On stars that brighter beam when most we need their love.
