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Pine Tree Poems

Table of Contents

Pine Tree Poems
Old Settlers
by Winslow Homer
  1. The Pines by Ruby Archer
  2. My Pines by J. H. Ecob
  3. Among the Pines by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
  4. In the Pine Grove by Ruby Archer
  5. The Pine-Tree by John B. Tabb
  6. Pine Music by Kate Louise Brown
  7. To a Pine-Tree by James Russell Lowell
  8. Among Wisconsin Pines by Nellie Olson
  9. Old Pines by Henry Chapin
  10. The Old Pine Tree by William Henry Drummond
  11. I Hear You Call, Pine Tree by Yone Noguchi
  12. The Pine Tree by John Greenleaf Whittier
  13. Under the Pines by Kate Louise Wheeler
  14. Amid the Pines at Sunset by Ada A. Mosher
  15. An Island Pine by Elisabeth Cavazza
  16. To a Very Small Pine by Willis Boyd Allen

  1. The Pines

    by Ruby Archer

    What ethics in the pine-grove lurk
    For keen of ear to sound—
    A myriad kindly ministers,
    Humility profound.

    The trees maintain a brotherhood,
    The earth exhales a prayer,
    Each bough a precious ointment pours
    In balm upon the air.

    The ferns a tender refuge grant
    To vagrant, rolling cone;
    The forest monarch woos the bird
    To share his royal throne.

    The willing branches move aside
    To leave the sunlight room;
    And in the whole broad, lovely wood,
    No envy makes a gloom.

    Come out and learn of pine-grove lore
    How sweet it is to give,
    What perfect rule for happiness,—
    To live and help to live.

  2. My Pines

    My Pines
    Waldpartie
    by Johann Othmar Doebeli
    by J. H. Ecob

    Acres of mighty pines I bought.
    As lord and master, went to see
    My goodly trees, and fondly thought,
    I own their very minstrelsy.

    I stepped within their solemn shade,
    And cried aloud. "Mine! mine! all mine!
    The deed is drawn, the price is paid;
    This day I claim you, every pine!"

    Alas! my vain and vulgar words
    Broke rudely on the sacred air,
    Accustomed to the leaves and birds,
    As street cries in a house of prayer.

    The chaste, sweet silence hushed the sound;
    Then through the aisles and arches ran
    Afar, anear, above, around,
    The Forest's answer to the man.

    O Sound ineffable! you hear
    The pulses of the Ocean's rhyme;
    The breath of peace and death and fear,
    The rustle of the wings of time.

    "Our roots take hold on vanished lives;
    Our veins with blood of ages run;
    Aloft each spire and needle strives
    To take the vintage of the sun.

    "When living airs draw softly near,
    Or trail our whispers on the wind,
    We shape the vacant atmosphere
    To accents of the Eternal Mind.

    "We read the secrets of the stars,
    By vigils under open skies
    We fight in elemental wars
    We look into the morning's eyes.

    "We hold our green. No change we know
    The branding heat, the frost that delves,
    The singing rain, or cowles of snow.
    Our life is hid within ourselves.

    "We warm the winter's aged heart;
    We stand unscathed in autumn's fires;
    And to the pale young spring impart
    Our mighty faith when her's expires.

    "Above your insect joys and fears,
    Your hopes and dreams forever fleeing.
    Hear the deep tones of endless years;
    Behold the sign of changeless being."

    Beneath the forest's ancient spell,
    My soul awoke, and heard the call
    Of boyhood. Voices dimly fell
    Around me—voices magical—

    Whose subtle intonations clear,
    Like echoes tangled in the wind,
    Had failed for many a weary year
    To gain my manhood's grosser mind.

    Ashamed, abased, as from the shrine
    Of an offended god I stole,
    And felt the accusing light with fine,
    Deep scorn look through and through my guilty soul,

    Not mine! O Holy Pines, not mine!
    Your birthright lies in earth and sky;
    The round world claims your fadeless sign,
    The Soul, your ancient minstrelsy.

  3. Among the Pines

    by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

    Faint murmurs from the pine-tops reach my ear,
    As if a harp-string—touched in some far sphere—
    Vibrating in the lucid atmosphere,
    Let the soft south wind waft its music here.

  4. In the Pine Grove

    In the Pine Grove
    Tree and Sailboat, Lyme, Connecticut (detail)
    by Charles DeWolf Brownell
    by Ruby Archer

    Do the pine-trees have a yearning
    For a respite,—oft I wonder,—
    From the lightning's jagged burning
    And the shaking of the thunder?

    From the wind's eternal plaining,
    And the sun's undying fire,
    Or the tempest-flood of raining?
    Can their sinews never tire?

    Do they weary of the quiver
    Through the whole of Nature's breast,
    And petition the All-Giver:
    "Oh for rest, an hour of rest!"?

  5. The Pine-Tree

    by John B. Tabb

    With whispers of futurity
    And echoes of the past,
    Twin birds a shelter find in thee
    Against the wintry blast,—
    The fledgling Hope, that preens her wing,
    Too timorous to fly,
    And Memory, that comes to sing
    Her coranach, and die.

  6. To a Pine-Tree

    To a Pine Tree
    The Interrupted Tete-a-Tete
    by Winslow Homer
    by James Russell Lowell

    Far up on Katahdin thou towerest,
    Purple-blue with the distance and vast;
    Like a cloud o'er the lowlands thou lowerest,
    That hangs poised on a lull in the blast,
    To its fall leaning awful.

    In the storm, like a prophet o'ermaddened,
    Thou singest and tossest thy branches;
    Thy heart with the terror is gladdened,
    Thou forebodest the dread avalanches,
    When whole mountains swoop valeward.

    In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys
    With thine arms, as if blessings imploring,
    Like an old king led forth from his palace,
    When his people to battle are pouring
    From the city beneath him.

    To the lumberer asleep 'neath thy glooming
    Thou dost sing of wild billows in motion,
    Till he longs to be swung 'mid their booming
    In the tents of the Arabs of ocean,
    Whose finned isles are their cattle.

    For the gale snatches thee for his lyre,
    With mad hand crashing melody frantic,
    While he pours forth his mighty desire
    To leap down on the eager Atlantic,
    Whose arms stretch to his playmate.

    The wild storm makes his lair in thy branches,
    Preying thence on the continent under;
    Like a lion, crouched close on his haunches,
    There awaiteth his leap the fierce thunder,
    Growling low with impatience.

    Spite of winter, thou keep'st thy green glory,
    Lusty father of Titans past number!
    The snowflakes alone make thee hoary,
    Nestling close to thy branches in slumber,
    And thee mantlingwith silence.

    Thou alone know'st the splendour of winter,
    'Mid thy snow-silvered hushed precipices,
    Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter,
    And then plunge down the muffled abysses
    In the quiet of midnight.

    Thou alone know'st the glory of summer,
    Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest,
    On thy subjects that send a proud murmur
    Up to thee, to their sachem, who towerest
    From thy bleak throne to heaven.

  7. Pine Music

    by Kate Louise Brown

    Last night, within my dreaming,
    There somehow came to me
    The faint and fairy music
    Of the far-off, singing sea.

    This morning, 'neath the pine tree,
    I heard that song once more;
    And I seemed to see the billows,
    As they broke against the shore.

    Oh, wandering summer breezes!
    The pine harps touch again,—
    For the child who loves the ocean.
    And longs for it in vain.

  8. Among Wisconsin Pines

    Among Wisconsin Pines
    Pines in the Tátra
    by Adrian Stokes
    by Nellie Olson

    Closely bending to each other
    Sway the slender trees of pine,
    While their branches, finger-ending,
    Clasp each other, keeping time,
    As in olden minuet,
    On a graceful, stately step,
    To the rhythm of the music
    Breathed in whispers
    By the pines.

    Oh, the fragrance of the pines!
    How it lingers in our minds,
    As a censer, swinging near,
    Leaves the spicy perfume rare,
    Or as from some oaken chest
    Odors come from folds long pressed;
    While the aged forest bards
    Sweetly mimic harpsichords,
    In the rambling, dulcet music
    Of the pines.

    In the bosom of the forest,
    In some hushed and dainty nook
    Where the mosses strewn with dead leaves
    Weave a cushion under foot,
    There the red deer meet in secret
    And the oriole and the linnet,
    Working in the forest twilight,
    Swing their cradles in the vines,
    And their voices, clear and joyous,
    Join the chorus
    Of the pines.

    Here in winter blows the North Wind
    From the tangled frozen marshes,
    And in chambers, long and winding,
    Sifts the deep and drifting snows.
    Then the voices of the forest,
    In a shrill and mighty chorus,
    Wail like lost souls, tempest tossed,
    Marching in a mighty host,
    And in passing, keeping time
    To the soughing and the sighing
    Of the pines.

    Let me then among the pines
    Dream and work and humbly live,
    Drawing sips of honeyed nectar
    From the ample breast of Nature;
    And from banks, moss-grown and low,
    When life's shadows longer grow,
    See the beck'ning pine-trees mirrored
    In some placid silvery river
    While their shades from deep confines
    Wave a welcome
    To the pines.

  9. Old Pines

    by Henry Chapin

    I

    Permanent and ancient pines along the sky
    Silently stand with rugged arms outspread;
    Serene gray ghosts, defiant and alone,
    Grim sentinels among the lost hill roads.
    They whisper in the autumn wind, as old men
    Murmur the glory of departed comrades,
    Then turn weak hmbs to fight the white-robed storms
    That gallop wildly over barren hills.

    II

    Old trees, you who whisper in the twilight,
    Soughing softly your secret of assurance,
    Grant me, pray, a moment of clear vision
    To feel the power of ancient pines in winter!
    A babel of myriad needles in the wind—
    A rush of voices calling out to God—
    An odorous gale wings swiftly down the glen;
    Then as before, silent, waiting sentinels.

  10. The Old Pine Tree

    by William Henry Drummond

    "Listen my child," said the old pine tree, to the little one nestling near,
    "For the storm clouds troop together to-night, and the wind of the north I hear
    And perchance there may come some echo of the music of long ago,
    The music that rang when the White Host sang, marching across the snow."

    "Up and away Saint George! up thro' the mountain gorge,
    Over the plain where the tempest blows, and the great white flakes are flying
    Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry men,
    Follow the trail, tho' the shy moon hides, and deeply the drifts are lying."

    "Ah! mother." the little pine tree replied, "you are dreaming again to-night
    Of ghostly visions and phantom forms that forever mock your sight
    'T is true moan of the winter wind comes to my list'ning ear
    But the White Host marching, I cannot see, and their music I cannot hear."

    "When the northern skies were all aflame where the trembling banners swung,
    When up in the vaulted heavens the moon of the Snow Shoe hung,
    When the hurricane swept the hillside, and the crested drifts ran high
    Those were the nights,' said the old pine tree, "the great White Host marched by."

    And the storm grew fiercer, fiercer, and the snow went hissing past,
    But the little pine tree still listened, till she heard above the blast
    The music her mother loved to hear in the nights of the long ago
    And saw in the forest the white-clad Host marching across the snow.

    And loud they sang as they tramped along of the glorious bygone days
    When valley and hill re-echeoed the snow-shoer's hymn of praise
    Till the shy moon gazed down smiling, and thenorth wind pause to hear
    And the old pine tree felt young again as the little one nestling near.

    "Up and away Saint George! up thro' the mountain gorge.
    Over the plain where the tempest blows, and the great white flakes are flying.
    Down the long narrow glen! faster my merry men.
    Follow the trail, tho' the shy moon hides, and deeply the drifts are lying."

  11. I Hear You Call, Pine Tree

    by Yone Noguchi

    I hear you call, Pine-tree, I hear you upon the hill; by the silent pond where the lotos flowers bloom, I hear you call, Pine-tree!

    What is it you call, Pine-tree, when the rains fall, when the winds blow, and when the stars appear, what is it you call, Pine-tree?

    I hear you call, Pine-tree, but I am blind, and do not know how to reach you, Pine-tree. Who will take me to you, Pine-tree?

  12. The Pine Tree

    by John Greenleaf Whittier

    Lift again the stately emblem on the Bay State's rusted shield,
    Give to Northern winds the Pine-Tree on our banner's tattered field.
    Sons of men who sat in council with their Bibles round the board,
    Answering England's royal missive with a firm, "Thus saith the Lord!"
    Rise again for home and freedom!—set the battle in array!—
    What the fathers did of old time we their sons must do to-day.

    Tell us not of banks and tariffs,—cease your paltry pedler cries;—
    Shall the good State sink her honor that your gambling stocks may rise?
    Would ye barter man for cotton?—That your gains may sum up higher,
    Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass our children through the fire?
    Is the dollar only real? God and truth and right a dream?
    Weighed against your lying ledgers must our manhood kick the beam?

    O my God!—for that free spirit, which of old in Boston town
    Smote the Province House with terror, struck the crest of Andros down!—
    For another strong-voiced Adams in the city's streets to cry,
    "Up for God and Massachusetts!—Set your feet on Mammon's lie!
    Perish banks and perish traffic,—spin your cotton's latest pound,—
    But in Heaven's name keep your honor, keep the heart o' the Bay State sound!"

    Where's the MAN for Massachusetts?—Where's the voice to speak her free?—
    Where's the hand to light up bonfires from her mountains to the sea?
    Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer?—Sits she dumb in her despair?—
    Has she none to break the silence?—Has she none to do and dare?
    O my God! for one right worthy to lift up her rushed shield,
    And to plant again the Pine-Tree in her banner's tattered field!

  13. Under the Pines

    by Kate Louise Wheeler

    Under the pines, on a summer's day,
    I list to a whisper from far away,
    And, lying low, with my half-closed eyes,
    Behold the beauty of fairer skies.
    Somee say 'tis the sound of the sighing sea,
    Whose distant murmer steals over me;
    Some say 'tis the baby breeze instead,
    That rocks in the branches overhead;
    But I know it is neither wave nor breeze,
    On shining sands and in leafy trees;
    'Tis the music sweet of a voice divine,
    That whispers peace to each pensive pine.

  14. Amid the Pines at Sunset

    by Ada A. Mosher

    Aisles leaf-carpeted, and columned
    With the tall Corinthian pines,
    Lifting to a dome of golden
    Coronals of carving olden,
    Wrought in wonderous designs.

    Heaven's cathedral windows flashing
    Sunset splendors opaline,
    Silent, gem-like offertories,
    Tessellating with strange glories
    Long dim aisles of bronzèd green.

    Thro' the cloistered sanctuary
    Of this forest-temple stole
    Whispers of a Voluntary
    That spake strangely to my soul.

    'Mid pine pillars all aglisten
    In the gold and amethyst,
    Knelt I reverently to listen
    To the aged organist—

    To the Wind—that old musician,
    With the centuries in his heart,
    And sublimer sweep of vision
    Thro' wierd melodies Elysian
    Than Beethoven or Mozart.

    Neath his aged hands caressing
    Trembled all the leafy keys,
    As he breathed beyond our guessing
    Something like a soul's best blessing,
    Or a soul itself confessing
    In Aeolian harmonies.

    How the low sweet numbers pealing
    Forth in whispers silence-soft,
    Thrilled me as I heard them stealing
    All surcharged with tenderest feeling
    From the pine-top organ-loft!

    Grayer grew the gold; the dying
    Day's last smile was, trembling, caught
    On the leaves, then, westward flying,
    Left me in the gloaming, trying
    To divine his master-thought.

    Suddenly came shadows stealing
    Like the forms of phantom nuns,
    Long, grey veils of mist concealing
    Their pale, prayerful faces, kneeling
    At their Vesper orisons.

    Grander, holier inspirations,
    From the organ-tower dim,
    Poured in tremulous vibrations;
    Then I know that with the nation's
    Rose his benediction hymn.

    Knew a thousand altars glistened
    Thro' a cloud of frankincense,
    In the taper's starlight christened,
    While archangels hid and listened
    From the rose's redolence.

    Silent, ghostly hands erected
    A dream throne—ciborium,
    Nature poured a praise perfected,
    Each star flashing a reflected
    Lifted ostensorium.

  15. An Island Pine

    by Elisabeth Cavazza

    Upon the promontory stands a Pine,
    Where the last land is steep against the sea,
    And waters break below, upon the shore:
    The years pass by as clouds above his head;
    And tempered by the sun and rain and wind,
    His lonely strength is lifted to the sky.

    And not for any changes of the sky,
    Or heat or cold, is changed the constant Pine,
    But sets his leafage hard against the wind;
    And fed with salt, sharp moisture of the sea,
    Before the hatred of the storm makes head,
    And stands a sentinel upon the shore.

    And when the sun-seared grass half clothes the shore,
    And floating mists melt in the sapphire sky,
    And birds of the new summer, overhead,
    Fly to and fro about the ancient Pine,
    And the sun's light is broken on the sea
    As the thin waves are crisped before the wind,

    The Pine, not moved by fierce or flattering wind,
    All day, all night, upon the lonely shore,
    As from a citadel, looks out to sea;
    Where slender, pointed masts upon the sky,
    Stature and shape of many a kindred pine,
    Come up the bay with banners at their head.

    And while the crown of leafage on his head
    Is held on high to meet the ocean wind,
    The mariner will hail the mighty Pine
    Set as a beacon on the extreme shore,
    And unafraid of darkening of the sky,
    Or sullen murmur of the mutinous sea.

    Year after year the Pine beside the sea
    Has watched the ships sail past the granite head
    And vanish in the distance of the sky,
    And send no message backward by the wind,
    To him who guards the lonely island shore.
    Forever at his post, the faithful Pine.
    Some day the Pine shall fall into the sea,
    And on the shore the trees bewail their head,
    While a great wind makes havoc in the sky.

  16. To a Very Small Pine

    by Willis Boyd Allen

    What song is in thy heart,
    Thou puny tree?
    Weak pinelet that thou art,—
    Trembling at every shock,
    Thy feebleness doth mock
    Thy high degree.

    When rage o'er sea and land
    The trumpets wild,
    How canst thou e'er withstand
    Their might, or baffle them
    With that frail, quivering stem,
    Poor forest child?

    Nay, wherefore scoff at thy
    Dimensions small?
    For, folded close, I spy
    A wee, wee bud, scarce seen
    Within its cradle green;
    And, after all,

    In ages yet to come
    Thy stately form,
    No longer dwarfed and dumb,
    But chanting to the breeze
    Sublime, sweet melodies,
    Shall breast the storm!

    Beneath thine outstretched arms
    Shall children rest;
    While, safe from all alarms,
    Within thy shadows deep
    Wild birds their tryst shall keep
    And weave their nest.

    May such a lot be his
    Who tends thee now!
    With heavenly harmonies
    Serene amid his foes,
    Outstretching as he grows
    In root and bough.

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