She was more like a tree upon a hill -- More like a sycamore than anything -- And was so much alone up there, that spring Or fall or summer she seemed quite to fill A place which otherwise had lacked the trill Of birds and grace of leafy gesturing. I think no one of us could know the sting Of high free winds could be so keen -- and kill. But all of us remember how the shade Crept sometimes down the slope and lingered there Among the trees that grew along the stream. We feel a lesser friendliness displayed Between us and the height -- we miss a stair By which we climbed to know a hill-top dream. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INVITATION TO A PAINTER: 3 by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM YOUTH PENETRANT by CONRAD AIKEN AMOUR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO RICHARD R. WRIGHT - INSTRUCTOR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ON THE PROPOSAL TO ERECT A MONUMENT IN ENGLAND TO LORD BYRON by EMMA LAZARUS TO CARMEN SYLVA (QUEEN OF ROUMANIA) by EMMA LAZARUS |