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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=413324" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The City Tree</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I stand within the stony, arid town,<br>I gaze for ever on the narrow street;<br>I hear for ever passing up and down,<br>The ceaseless tramp of feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I know no brotherhood with far-lock'd woods,<br>Where branches bourgeon from a kindred sap;<br>Where o'er moss'd roots, in cool, green solitudes,<br>Small silver brooklets lap.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No em'rald vines creep wistfully to me,<br>And lay their tender fingers on my bark;<br>High may I toss my boughs, yet never see<br>Dawn's first most glorious spark.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When to and fro my branches wave and sway,<br>Answ'ring the feeble wind that faintly calls,<br>They kiss no kindred boughs but touch alway<br>The stones of climbing walls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">My heart is never pierc'd with song of bird;<br>My leaves know nothing of that glad unrest,<br>Which makes a flutter in the still woods heard,<br>When wild birds build a nest.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There never glance the eyes of violets up,<br>Blue into the deep splendour of my green:<br>Nor falls the sunlight to the primrose cup,<br>My quivering leaves between.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not mine, not mine to turn from soft delight<br>Of wood-bine breathings, honey sweet, and warm;<br>With kin embattl'd rear my glorious height<br>To greet the coming storm!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not mine to watch across the free, broad plains<br>The whirl of stormy cohorts sweeping fast;<br>The level, silver lances of great rains,<br>Blown onward by the blast.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not mine the clamouring tempest to defy,<br>Tossing the proud crest of my dusky leaves:<br>Defender of small flowers that trembling lie<br>Against my barky greaves.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not mine to watch the wild swan drift above,<br>Balanced on wings that could not choose between<br>The wooing sky, blue as the eye of love,<br>And my own tender green.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And yet my branches spread, a kingly sight,<br>In the close prison of the drooping air:<br>When sun-vex'd noons are at their fiery height,<br>My shade is broad, and there</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Come city toilers, who their hour of ease<br>Weave out to precious seconds as they lie<br>Pillow'd on horny hands, to hear the breeze<br>Through my great branches die.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I see no flowers, but as the children race<br>With noise and clamour through the dusty street,<br>I see the bud of many an angel face--<br>I hear their merry feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">No violets look up, but shy and grave,<br>The children pause and lift their chrystal eyes<br>To where my emerald branches call and wave--<br>As to the mystic skies.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Isabella+Valancy+Crawford">Isabella Valancy Crawford</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=413324" data-title="The City Tree de Isabella Valancy Crawford" data-description="I stand within the stony, arid town,
I gaze for ever on the narrow street;
I hear for ever passing up and down,
The ceaseless tramp of feet.

I know no brotherhood with far-lock'd woods,
Where branches bourgeon from a kindred sap;
Where o'er moss'..."></div>
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