I AM old and wise and strong, Hale, and still inclined to song; And the morning I salute Loud upon my oaten flute; Then, ardent o'er my ranked pipes bending, Match the sky-lark's song ascending; With pursed lips hovering o'er each reed, From deep to treble on I speed, And surprise him in the blue With earth-born echo clear and true. And sometimes, when the rustling breeze Draws hints of music from the trees, I nurse and fondle their beginning, Chord to mate with chord still winning, Rearing the infant tune to express All a dryad's happiness. Next bend mine eyes to worship flowers; This tip-toe on a slim stalk towers, Pride at one with innocence Like a child in a new wimple; This other, under leafage dense, Sure of being searched for, simple Yet counting upon beauty's power, Content to wait its triumph's hour. How the gracious ferns expand Like a sleeping infant's hand! And their growth acquires greatness As a boy-king's soul sedateness. For them, belike, the trees are gods, Whom they wonder of and trust, And augur from their drowsy nods Till the autumn, when they rust; Their glades then gorgeous to behold, Complain they that their age grows cold? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HIS OWNE EPITAPH by FRANCOIS VILLON WHITTIER by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER THE CAP AND BELLS by WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS TAKE YOUR CHOICE: AND BLISS CARMAN by BERTON BRALEY THE HANDS THAT HANG DOWN by ADA CAMBRIDGE OUR SCHOOLMASTER by ALICE CARY |