OLEAVE this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Though bush or floweret never grow My dark unwarming shade below; Nor summer bud perfume the dew Of rosy blush, or yellow hue; Nor fruits of autumn, blossom born, My green and glossy leaves adorn; Nor murmuring tribes from me derive Th' ambrosial amber of the hive; Yet leave this barren spot to me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! Thrice twenty summers I have seen The sky grow bright, the forest green; And many a wintry wind have stood In bloomless, fruitless solitude, Since childhood in my pleasant bower First spent its sweet and sportive hour; Since youthful lovers in my shade Their vows of truth and rapture made, And on my trunk's surviving frame Carved many a long forgotten name. Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound, First breathed upon this sacred ground; By all that Love has whispered here, Or Beauty heard with ravished ear; As Love's own altar honour me: Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO BE LIKED BY YOU WOULD BE A CALAMITY by MARIANNE MOORE THE FOUNTAIN (2) by SARA TEASDALE THE UNIVERSITY OF GOTTINGEN by GEORGE CANNING JAY A-PASS'D by WILLIAM BARNES SEARCHLIGHTS by MILDRED SUTTON BRENEMAN |