The Poplar.
The life of the slow, scented gale
Dies on the sunny hill,
The stream steals voiceless through the vale,
The listening woods are still :
The gold-green oaks that shade the land
No movement make, or sound,
The sycamores and cedars stand
Mute in a dream profound.
Of all the sylvan band alone,
At its far trembling height,
The poplar on its island-throne
Is troubled with delight.
A spirit stirs its leafy peak,
As though it held in air
Discourse with shapes unseen that speak
Celestial tidings there.
So souls that soar may feel, may see
A freedom and a glow,
Which bless not the grey apathy
Creeping content below ;
May catch the heightened moods that bring
The thoughts that burn and shine ;
May hear the stars of morning sing,
And drink the winds divine.