Pine Tree Poems

Table of Contents

Pine Tree Poems — Old Settlers
by Winslow Homer

The Pines by Ruby Archer
My Pines by J. H. Ecob
Among the Pines by Thomas Bailey Aldrich
In the Pine Grove by Ruby Archer
The Pine-Tree by John B. Tabb
Pine Music by Kate Louise Brown
To a Pine-Tree by James Russell Lowell
Among Wisconsin Pines by Nellie Olson
The Pine Coolies of Minnesota by Julia Augusta Norton Atwood
Pine Trees in Kansas by Rose Morgan
The Grand Old Pine of Georgia by Ryal J. Phillips
Old Pines by Henry Chapin
The Old Pine Tree by William Henry Drummond
I Hear You Call, Pine Tree by Yone Noguchi
The Pine Tree by John Greenleaf Whittier
Under the Pines by Kate Louise Wheeler
Amid the Pines at Sunset by Ada A. Mosher
An Island Pine by Elisabeth Cavazza
To a Very Small Pine by Willis Boyd Allen
A Pine Wood's Sonnet by Charles L. Cleaveland
Pine Tree by Hilda Conkling
Pine Cone by Hilda Conkling

The Pines

by Ruby Archer

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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.
My Pines

Waldpartie
by Johann Othmar Doebeli

by J. H. Ecob

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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.
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.
In the Pine Grove

Tree and Sailboat, Lyme, Connecticut (detail)
by Charles DeWolf Brownell

by Ruby Archer

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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!"?
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.
To a Pine-Tree

The Interrupted Tete-a-Tete
by Winslow Homer

by James Russell Lowell

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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.
Pine Music

by Kate Louise Brown

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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.
Among Wisconsin Pines

Pines in the Tátra
by Adrian Stokes

by Nellie Olson

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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.
The Pine Coolies* of Minnesota

by Julia Augusta Norton Atwood

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O happy day! O day of rest!
Would I could be again,
With all those merry-hearted ones,
Within that rocky glen!

Just such a day, just such an hour,
With golden glints between;
But memory's pen with magic power
Will reproduce the scene.

The artist in the cavern's mouth,
With sketch-book on her knee,
Seeking to pencil forth the scene,
Ere sunset's tints should flee.

There were noble men of cultured minds,
And ladies fair to see,
Now gazing up with wondering eyes,
Now resting 'neath a tree.

And girlhood's happy, joyous laugh
Would ring throughout the glen,
With such a silvery, rippling sound,
'T would snare the hearts of men.

So bright and beauteous was the scene,
So perfect and so fair,—
Trees covered o'er with brightest green,
And song-birds in the air.

Vast rocks piled up toward the sky,
As though twas Nature's throne,
So grandly noble it all seemed,
Yet meant for man alone.

O would that I could picture forth
On canvass all I saw,
And give to others eyes the scene,
Near Mississippi's shore.

Tall trees of ever-changing hue,
The elm, the oak, the pine,
And many others, all unknown,
Would greet thy gaze and mine.

But it were vain, indeed, in me
To dare portray the scene
Which God, with his almighty hand,
Hath framed in shades of green.

Such narrow defiles, dark and steep,
With caverns in the glen!
Such depth below, such height above,
Wrought not by hand of men,

But by One mightier far than they,
Eternal in the sky—
The God who made us, one and all,
To live, to move, and die;

That, dying, we might live again,
In brighter worlds than this,
And wander on 'neath greener trees,
In never ending bliss.

*Properly "canyons," but are familiarly called "coolies."
Pine Trees in Kansas

by Rose Morgan

The cottonwood, own child of radiant spring,
Stands all aflutter in its shimmering green,
As not of Earth but of some realm serene
Where Winter never comes, and Light is king,
Whither its leafy pinions quivering,
Its upflung boughs in their soft silver sheen,
Seem ready to transport it when the keen
Arctural blasts stop its brief bourgeoning.
Behind it rise the pines in dull array,
Dark wintry aliens in a sunbright land;
Yet winter s strength their level boughs display,
Strength fitted winter's tempests to withstand;
And on them rests a glory past compare—
The fulfilled hope of those who set them there.

"We go to rear a wall of men
On freedom's southern line,
And plant beside the cotton tree
The rugged northern pine."

– John Greenleaf Whittier
The Song of the Kansas Emigrant

“
The Grand Old Pine of Georgia

by Ryal J. Phillips

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The grim old pines of Georgia,
So tall, and strong and grand,
Their beauty shades our pathway
As we march through the land.
Their only robe of verdure
Is never stripped from them at fall;
And yet of all our native trees
We love them best of all.

Upon her hills and in her vales
The pines were ever seen,
Till felled by some rough pioneer
Who wealth had come to glean.
Oh, cruel deed! oh, heartless man,
That comes for wealth alone,
Regardless of a country's pride,
Or her beauty thus adorned.

We love the pines still living
So noble, grand and gay;
We also love the dead that are decaying,
On their cold and silent beds of clay.
We love them for the warmth they give us,
Which cheer our social hearth,
For their crimson flame make our girls the fairest
Of any on the earth.

The grand old pine of Georgia—
The monarch of our land;
No one has ever gone unsheltered
Beneath thy outstretched hand.
Longfellow tried to sing thy praise
With Anderson, Pope and Gray,
And still you stand in all your splendor,
While they are sleeping in their beds of clay.

Thou true and noble pine,
Thou art the poor man's dearest friend;
When others one by one have left him,
You a helping hand will lend.
The rich, too, will ne'er forget you,
And o'er their heads your watching eyes will gaze
When in their palace homes they gather—
In December's morn, you'll bless them with your blaze.

Ah, stretch your arms, oh, noble pine,
All o'er our southern land,
And when my soul has left this sphere,
Come, I implore thee, and o'er my body stand.
Again, majestic friend, this boon I only ask,
Show to the world where I may be,
My name inscribe on a wooden slab,—
The name of R. J. P.
Old Pines

by Henry Chapin

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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.
The Old Pine Tree

by William Henry Drummond

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"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."
I Hear You Call, Pine Tree

by Yone Noguchi

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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?
The Pine Tree

by John Greenleaf Whittier

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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!
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.
Amid the Pines at Sunset

by Ada A. Mosher

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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.
An Island Pine

by Elisabeth Cavazza

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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.
To a Very Small Pine

by Willis Boyd Allen

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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.
A Pine Wood's Sonnet

by Charles L. Cleaveland

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This is the inner circle of the pines;
Yet here within the sweet and ancient shade
The calls are heard of labor and of trade—
The saw mill's whistle, as the sun declines
Breaks through this solitude; and certain signs
Mark where shrewd men have keen inspection made
Of these tall timbers, whose square feet arrayed
Made quick their blood, as though with mellow wines.

And while that brook, like a full artery,
With silent force throbs through the woodland wild,
While like a breaking bosom does appear
The gentle waving of each tree
That stirs within the evening breezes mild,
It seems the heart of Michigan beats here!
Pine Tree

by Hilda Conkling

Away in the great forest
On the slope of a snow-capped mountain
A lonely pine tree stood by itself.
It had no one to love it:
So I stayed all night
Under its branches laden with snow.
I did not mind the cold.
Pine Cone

by Hilda Conkling

Pine cone is a brown girl
From Kentucky.
By a gleaming lake she stands
Like a lady in front of a mirror
Admiring her dress.
I often see her brown curls ruffled out . . .
I see her dimples . . .
I hear the grass and the dew play music to her . . .
But what made me think of her today
I'll never know.

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