The Trees Are Down
and he cried with a loud voice: Hurt not the earth, neither the sea, nor the trees - Revelation
They are cutting down the great plane-trees at the end of
the gardens.
For days there has been the grate of the saw, the swish of
the branches as they fall,
The crash of the trunks, the rustle of trodden leaves,
With the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoa', the loud common talk,
the loud common laughs of the men, above it all.
I remember one evening of a long past Spring
Turning in at a gate, getting out of a cart, and finding
a large dead rat in the mud of the drive.
I remember thinking: alive or dead, a rat was a
god-forsaken thing,
But at least, in May, that even a rat should be alive.
The week's work here is as good as done. There is just
one bough
On the roped bole, in the fine grey rain,
Green and high
And lonely against the sky.
(Down now! -)
And but for that,
If an old dead rat
Did once, for a moment, unmake the Spring, I might never
have thought of him again.
It is not for a moment the Spring is unmade to-day;
These were great trees, it was in them from root to stem:
When the men with the 'Whoops' and the 'Whoas' have carted
the whole of the whispering loveliness away
Half the Spring, for me, will have gone with them.
It is going now, and my heart has been struck with the
hearts of the planes;
Half my life it has beat with these, in the sun, in the rains,
In the March wind, the May breeze,
In the great gales that came over to them across the roofs from the great seas.
There was only a quiet rain when they were dying;
They must have heard the sparrows flying,
And the small creeping creatures in the earth where they were lying -
But I, all day, I heard an angel crying:
'Hurt not the trees.'
poem by Charlotte Mary Mew
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Related quotes
Sonnet: Grow Trees
The branches cut the wind fierce to a breeze;
The leaves break sunlight into chequered beams;
The shade of trees affords all travelers peace;
The wearied ones sleep ’neath the trees in dreams!
And birds too build their nests on branches high;
The squirrels eat their berries with great joy;
The trees make verdant all landscape near-by;
And attract rain in which children enjoy!
Trees make the earth greener and beautiful,
Adding oxygen to the air we breathe;
Preserve its trees, man! Nature is grateful;
The leaves and flowers can make us a wreath.
Trees are so useful to mankind always;
’midst good trees, men have spent their earthly days!
7-14-2002
poem by John Celes
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Hopes
A PRINCESS, sleeping in enchanted bowers,
Earth springs to waking at Spring's voice and kiss,
And after winter's cold, unlovely hours,
Laughs out to find how beautiful she is.
Spring flings a song across the field and fold,
And sighs it through the glad wood's tangled ways;
And million, million tales of love are told,
And dreams are dreamed of undivided days.
In hollows where so late but dead leaves lay,
Through the dead leaves the primroses push up;
And wind-flowers fleck the copse, and fields are gay
With daisies and the budding buttercup.
So in our hearts, though thick the dead leaves lie
Of grief--heaped up by winds of old despair--
May there not be a spring-time by-and-by,
When flowers of joy shall blossom even there?
So long has Winter held our hearts in his,
We dare not dream of Spring and all her flowers?
Ah! the undreamed-of happiness it is
That comes--the dreamed-of joy is never ours!
When late the trees were brown and hedges bare,
And keen east wind cut sharp as human pain,
Did the Earth guess how soon she would be fair
With Spring's dear dainty loveliness again?
We do not guess of joy, but hope alone--
Like life's mysterious force that thrills the earth--
Lives in our souls, unrecognised, unknown,
Till time shall bring unhoped-for joy to birth.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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In Autumn
The leaves are many under my feet,
And drift one way.
Their scent of death is weary and sweet.
A flight of them is in the grey
Where sky and forest meet.
The low winds moan for sad sweet years;
The birds sing all for pain,
Of a common thing, to weary ears,--
Only a summer's fate of rain,
And a woman's fate of tears.
I walk to love and life alone
Over these mournful places,
Across the summer overthrown,
The dead joys of these silent faces,
To claim my own.
I know his heart has beat to bright
Sweet loves gone by;
I know the leaves that die to-night
Once budded to the sky;
And I shall die from his delight.
O leaves, so quietly ending now,
You heard the cuckoos sing.
And I will grow upon my bough
If only for a spring,
And fall when the rain is on my brow.
O tell me, tell me ere you die,
Is it worth the pain?
You bloomed so fair, you waved so high;
Now that the sad days wane,
Are you repenting where you lie?
I lie amongst you, and I kiss
Your fragrance mouldering.
O dead delights, is it such bliss,
That tuneful Spring?
Is love so sweet, that comes to this?
Kiss me again as I kiss you;
Kiss me again;
For all your tuneful nights of dew,
In this your time of rain,
For all your kisses when Spring was new.
You will not, broken hearts; let be.
I pass across your death
To a golden summer you shall not see,
And in your dying breath
There is no benison for me.
There is an autumn yet to wane,
There are leaves yet to fall,
Which, when I kiss, may kiss again,
And, pitied, pity me all for all,
And love me in mist and rain.
poem by Alice Meynell
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Meditations after Li Po for M lady Helen
I
I follow in the footsteps
of old poets of the past.
As geese fly south in autumn.
Instinct is my only guide.
My attempts to emulate,
may not bear such worthy fruit.
I can only do my best
II
The trees discard all their leaves
and face winter nakedly.
I ask myself why this should be
but I receive no reply.
Winter winds pass freely through
the leafless twigs and branches.
Dead leaves return to the earth.
III
The trees stand as sentinels
coated with white bitter frost
Bowing in submission
to the power of the wind.
Better to bend than to break,
the trees know instinctively
the wind dies as spring returns.
IV
Only when the time is right
the geese will return once more.
The trees will put forth new leaves,
flowers spring up underfoot
The spring sunshine will inspire
Poets to take up their brush
and ink: To write poetry.
21-Oct-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Autumnale for M lady ernestine
The falling leaves dance in the breeze
and clothe the ground beneath the trees,
in autumn colours rich a rare.
The trees themselves will soon be bare.
Left no defence against the wind.
Their winter plans are well designed,
bare twigs and branches hold less snow
than useless leaves they have let go
The wintry gales to no avail
try hard but they are doomed to fail,
They can’t destroy the sturdy trees;
resisting with apparent ease.
Although they bow before the blast
they know that winter cannot last
The winds will die and fade away
the trees will they’re here to stay.
Spring will return the trees will green
as if the winter had not been.
The trees put on their new spring clothes
along with every plant that grows.
8-Oct-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Sycamore Trees....
i don't imagine sycamore trees
we don't have them
i can't imagine the sea-breeze bringing to me
the perfume of your hair
or remembering once that there was spring and that you were with me
not that i do not like spring
but because there is no spring here
and one last thing,
i can't remember you because you are no longer here with me
honestly what for? do i take another dagger and stab my heart again with
it?
how foolish can i be- that is what my friends are telling me.
i don't remember sycamore trees, and i have no plans remembering them.
we don't have it here.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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As The Spring Walks
the spring walks to the trees
to the flowers
to the leaves
the leaves turn to flowers
flowers to whites
slowly and sreadı ly
the restaurants disperse themselves to the streets
even the multi colored gaRDENS
opening to the children
people throw themselves to the pavements
the ugly
yhe good
the best and th dı rty
all together
all of them are walking in the spring
at one moment
hopeful
hopeless
living is drawing from their skirts
as he wishes
on the lips
a little smiles
bitter or ticklı ng
may be a piece of
living remnants
even if he does not want
a littler boy treads to the spring
treads smalls to the spring
his small shoes
caressing the spring
they were saying that
the spring will never come this year
but it came at last
nearer and nearer
closer and closer
use it as you wish
fry it in oven
or soak it with the sea
when the days become wrmer
the birds are happier
turning the pidgeons in the air
crowing the crown harder
there is the magpie
gone mad as ifs
gone crazy or insane
the spring walks to the trees
blossoms
as a turntable the time
dropping leaves in winter
, blossoming in summer
the litle girls playing balls
in the gardens
childish
ı know
the flowers must have bloomed
in my mother's grave wildish
theyt need even a little prayer
father is not known where
as he wanted there
may be that is the best for remembering
did not ı lost my sister in may
i do not even remember
slowly passes time
we are destined to live
as long as we live
blind or half lame
even if we scare
pray or not pray
our end is always in black soil
but the truth is covered with a wall
and one day
we will pass over
and eternalkly live there
fire it drops where
trouble disturbs us
time passing by
one day
we will say to all of you
and the spring googd bye
my rebellingf time has passed
long ago
but ı wonder
from time to time
when will the spring to me
will ever come
poem by Metin Sahin
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Spring's Accomplishments
Spring brings with it a warm, gentle breeze
Along with the trees sprouting their baby soft leaves
Gently tapping the ground are the soft showers
Bringing around soft, springtime flowers
Now here they come, the butterflies and the bees
Attracted to the gardens and newly awakened trees
The trees emanate such a calming scent of sap
And the birds nestle down for a peaceful nap
As Easter approaches, the sunshine gets stronger
And as spring continues, the days get longer
The spring goes into a deep slumber
And who takes over then? It's summer!
poem by Caroline Bulleck
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Hearing the Early Oriole
When the sun rose I was still lying in bed;
An early oriole sang on the roof of my house.
For a moment I thought of the Royal Park at dawn
When the Birds of Spring greeted their Lord from his trees.
I remember the days when I served before the Throne
Pencil in hand, on duty at the Ch'eng-ming;
At the height of spring, when I paused an instant from work,
Morning and evening, was this the voice I heard?
Now in my exile the oriole sings again
In the dreary stillness of Hsün-yang town ...
The bird's note cannot really have changed;
All the difference lies in the listener's heart.
If he could but forget that he lives at the World's end,
The bird would sing as it sang in the Palace of old.
Waiting For Spring
Though cloudy skies, and northern blasts,
Retard the gentle spring awhile;
The sun will conqu'ror prove at last,
And nature wear a vernal smile.
The promise, which from age to age,
Has brought the changing seasons round;
Again shall calm the winter's rage,
Perfume the air, and paint the ground.
The virtue of that first command,
I know still does, and will prevail;
That while the earth itself shall stand,
The spring and summer shall not fail.
Such changes are for us decreed;
Believers have their winters too;
But spring shall certainly succeed,
And all their former life renew.
Winter and spring have each their use,
And each, in turn, his people know;
One kills the weeds their hearts produce,
The other makes their graces grow.
Though like dead trees awhile they seem,
Yet having life within their root,
The welcome spring's reviving beam
Draws forth their blossoms, leaves, and fruit.
But if the tree indeed be dead,
It feels no change, though spring return,
Its leafless naked, barren head,
Proclaims it only fit to burn.
Dear Lord, afford our souls a spring,
Thou know'st our winter has been long;
Shine forth, and warm our hearts to sing,
And thy rich grace shall be our song.
poem by John Newton
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There Is a Solemn Wind Tonight
There is a solemn wind to-night
That sings of solemn rain;
The trees that have been quiet so long
Flutter and start again.
The slender trees, the heavy trees,
The fruit trees laden and proud,
Lift up their branches to the wind
That cries to them so loud.
The little bushes and the plants
Bow to the solemn sound,
And every tiniest blade of grass
Shakes on the quiet ground.
poem by Katherine Mansfield
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A September Day
A thing of such great beauty to behold
The wattles resplendent in their blooms of gold
The first week of September and Spring is in the air
And in the green park daisies bloom everywhere,
On a day like this 'tis good to be alive
To start your car and go off on a drive
So great to live to see another Spring
To hear the nesting wild birds chirp and sing,
Were i a poet i would write a simple lay
For to celebrate this beautiful Spring day
To celebrate the beauty i can see
Where the Goddess of Spring has spread her greenery
And the wattles laden in their golden flowers
Look resplendent in these mild September hours.
poem by Francis Duggan
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It is Spring Time
It is Spring Time
It is spring time.
I can smell it in the air.
I can smell the flowers.
I can smell the grass.
I can touch the grass.
I can touch and taste the vegetable growing in the garden.
The weather is changing.
The weather is warming up.
The trees are blossoming.
The flowers are blossoming.
It is spring time.
Easter has passed.
Beltane has passed.
Spring and May is here.
This is the time to tend to your garden and planted some flowers.
Some people pray to God to protect their garden.
Some people pray to Mother Nature for protect.
I do both and I thank God for this planet.
It is Spring Time.
The animals and bugs come out to play.
The frogs jump around the pond.
The wildflower comes out.
The sky is clean and blue.
The sun is shining.
The horses are running free.
The sunflowers are growing.
When seasons the earth also changes it is a beautiful way.
Nature is every where.
It is spring time.
There is rain and storm.
The trees have leaves and it arms.
The trees are ancient.
An apple falls down from the trees.
This is what thinks spring time is for me.
Spring time is beautiful.
Spring time is when nature is beautiful.
It is spring time.
Spring time is here.
The rabbits come out, and hop round.
The bees are collection honey for us.
The tulips are blossoming.
The roses are blossoming, and looking so beautiful.
The lavender is purple and bright.
Spring time is a time to celebrate.
Spring time is a time to clean our environment.
It is spring time.
Spring time is a time when rain falls.
Spring time is the time when the seasons changes.
Spring time is when the plants grow.
Spring time is my favorite season.
Spring time is the time to be happy.
It is spring time.
poem by Crystal Chown
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On Wattle Day
On bushes and trees on the first day of Spring
The nesting songbirds chirp and whistle and sing
In the darkness of midnight as the rain drizzled down
The Goddess of Spring she crept into town
The Spring has arrived in Australia for her three months stay
On the first of September known as Wattle Day
The rain in the morning gave way to sunshine
And the rest of the day may be sunny and fine
The wattle trees cloaked in their bright yellow flowers
They came to bloom in late Winter in the rain driven showers
With the arrival of Spring an abundance of green
And wildflowers known to some as weeds everywhere to be seen
The mealaleucas in their blooms of pink to gray
For beauty compete with the wattles on Wattle Day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Rain Song
I dont think about us much anymore.
Frankly, the topic has become a bore.
And you dont come up much in my conversations.
And I dont think about you on vacation.
Oh, but when it rains.
When it rains. when it rains.
Thats when I remember. (I remember)
Thats when I remember. (I remember)
I remember you. (oh, I remember you)
I remember you.
I dont think about you when Im sleeping.
Oh, it doesnt even cross my dream-like mind. (oh)
And I dont think I see your face through the curtain.
Hell, I dont even miss you half the time. (half the time)
Oh, when it rains. when it rains. when it rains.
Thats when I remember. (I remember)
Yeah, thats when I remember. (I remember)
I remember you. (oh, I remember you)
I remember you.
Rain, rain, go away.
Im doing fine as long as you stay locked up inside a cloud of grey.
Rain, rain. rain, rain, rain. rain, rain. rain. rain!
cause when it rains. yeah, when it rains. when it rains.
Thats when I remember. (I remember)
Yeah, thats when I remember. (I remember)
I remember you. (I remember)
I remember you. (I remember you)
Thats when I remember. (I remember)
The only time I remember. (I remember)
I remember you. (oh, I remember you) I remember you.
song performed by by Hootie & The Blowfish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Trees
Green with spendour when Summer's here,
Brown contender in Autumn's sphere,
Bare the branches in Winter's embrace,
New growth created, when Spring shows her face.
Stalwart trunks, with many years standing,
Leaves when over, steadily landing,
Branches swaying in the breeze,
How I love all kinds of trees.
Forests of green, where they all meet,
Swaying together as they all greet,
Each morning, when the light appears,
Each growing slowly over the years.
Sentinels of the land they survey,
Strong and upstanding in every way,
Graceful, mighty, powerful and fine,
Tall and sleek just like the Pine.
The Oak, Ash, Sycamore and Lime,
The Rowan, White Beam and Silver Birch sublime,
Each one giving of their glorious best,
To the World - The World's been blest.
What would we do without our trees,
Don't cut them down, will you please,
Remember how they give us shade,
From the sun, within the glade.
Stand and study these majestic creations,
Upright descendants of past relations,
Their dignity, against all weathers,
If it were us, we'd lose our tethers.
But these gallant trees require our care,
They give oxygen, in the air
That we breathe, so, if we want to survive,
Let us keep our trees alive.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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When The Green Gits Back In The Trees
In spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
And the sun comes out and stays,
And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,
And you think of yer barefoot days;
When you ort to work and you want to not,
And you and yer wife agrees
It's time to spade up the garden lot,
When the green gits back in the trees--
Well! work is the least o' _my_ idees
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
Is a-buzzin' aroun' agin,
In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please
Old gait they bum roun' in;
When the groun's all bald where the hay-rick stood,
And the crick 's riz, and the breeze
Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
And the green gits back in the trees,--
I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,
The time when the green gits back in the trees!
When the whole tail-feathers o' wintertime
Is all pulled out and gone!
And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,
And the sweat it starts out on
A feller's forred, a-gittin' down
At the old spring on his knees--
I kind o' like jes' a-loaferin' roun'
When the green gits back in the trees--
Jes' a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--please--
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Autumn Falling Leaves
When all have been and gone away,
Like leaves from green to amber orange,
Falling down and to decay,
Is the time for all in nature to fall,
And the leaves on the trees show it all,
Autumn and its falls of fall,
Where all the branches have dropped their leaves,
All have gone except the evergreens,
Showing signs to us that live among,
Four seasons weather,
Where Autumn is,
Just like in life,
When full circle of life is known,
A start in spring where buds appear,
Then in summer full bloom trees will be,
Hence, fall shows all,
When nature falls,
Begining another season,
Winter and chill tempetures,
Where nature decays,
And leaves do fall,
To generate again,
Renewing its life,
Come spring again,
Untill then,
Autumn sheads its leaves of blossom and blooms,
And soon again autumn begins,
From new to old,
And then old to new,
Buds in spring and leaves of green,
Showing birth from what did decayed,
And brought forth from,
What was bear on the trees,
From where beneath was where once,
Those Autumn falling leaves.
poem by Ellen Ni Bheachain
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The Poet's Song
I HID in the world and sang,
And I sang so loud and long
That all the ages rang
With the music of my song.
I sang of the earth and sky,
5
I sang of the whispering seas,
I sang of the mountains high,
And I sang of the flowers and trees;
I sang of the early spring,
I sang of the dawning day,
10
I sang, for I had to sing
As the young lambs have to play;
Till heaven and earth were ringing,
And all the people heard,
And they said, "We love his singing,
15
For his song is the song of the bird."
poem by Frederick George Scott
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Like the Spring Wind
Warm Spring wind,
Streaming past my vale in swirling crescendos
Past the grey skies of the barren Winter's sorrows
A refreshing breeze,
Roaring past heaving branches in this new season's panorama
From the sparkling seas,
New life merging with the clarion winds over swaying trees and hillocks
This symphony resounding in victory
O'er the bleak wastelands of Winter's dominion
May new love, like the Spring wind
Glide and melt this Winter's heart that reigns in my being
May her kiss forever free me from the bonds of yesterday's prison
Like the sun warming the cold earth
And her touch, like a breath of new life.
poem by Night Flyer
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