The Poplar.

The life of the slow, scented gale1
Dies on the sunny hill,2
The stream steals voiceless through the vale,3
The listening woods are still :4
The gold-green oaks that shade the land5
No movement make, or sound,6
The sycamores and cedars stand7
Mute in a dream profound.8
Of all the sylvan band alone,9
At its far trembling height,10
The poplar on its island-throne11
Is troubled with delight.12
A spirit stirs its leafy peak,13
As though it held in air14
Discourse with shapes unseen that speak15
Celestial tidings there.16
So souls that soar may feel, may see17
A freedom and a glow,18
Which bless not the grey apathy19
Creeping content below ;20
May catch the heightened moods that bring21
The thoughts that burn and shine ;22
May hear the stars of morning sing,23
And drink the winds divine.24