Lines Written to a Tree
Spent from the weight of suppressing thick heat
I slipped into the shade, and found my seat:
Quiet, under green canopy, softly spread,
Whispering, spilling hot sparkles on my head.
O Spirits forgotten! I’ve heard of thee,
But never saw such Dryads in a tree;
What has, of ancient times, remained of thee?
What quiet operations set you free?
In summer thy branches in full-bent ache
Are loaded sweet for a small creature’s sake.
And to keep up supply thy reaching root
Delves into dark to shore up the soil’s loot.
What perfect union, without compare,
Where to live, we sip the other’s air,
Pluck generosity, and take a taste,
To treasure what the other would waste.
So here you stand, blest with Eden’s bounty,
A modern relic of immortal beauty;
Music to the mind who can craft a line,
Singing to our spirits the fruit of thine.
