I took my hat off to a flower That nodded welcome as I passed; And, pelted by a morning shower, Unto its heart a bee held fast. A head of gold one great weed tossed, And leaned to look when I went by; And where the brook the roadway crossed The daisy kept on me its eye. And when I stooped to bathe my face, And seat me at a great tree’s foot, I heard the stream say, “Mark the place: And undermine it rock and root.” And o’er the whirling water there A dragonfly its shuttle plied, Where wild a fern let down its hair, And leaned to see the water’s pride-- A speckled trout. The spotted elf, Whom I had come so far to see, Stretched out above a rocky shelf, A shadow sleeping mockingly. * * * * * And I have sat here half the day Regarding it. It has not stirred. I heard the running water say-- “He does not know the magic word. “The word that changes everything, And brings all Nature to his hand: That makes of this great trout a king, And opes the way to Faeryland.” _The Bellman_ _Madison Cawein_ TREES I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree. A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth’s hungry breast; A tree that looks at God all day And lifts her leafy arms to pray; A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair; Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain. Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree! _Poetry, A Magazine of Verse_ _Joyce Kilmer_ IN THE HOSPITAL Because on the branch that is tapping my pane A sun-wakened leaf-bud, uncurled, Is bursting its rusty brown sheathing in twain, I know there is Spring in the world. Because through the sky-patch whose azure and white My window frames all the day long A yellow-bird dips for an instant of flight, I know there is Song. Because even here in this Mansion of Woe Where creep the dull hours, leaden-shod, Compassion and Tenderness aid me, I know There is God. _Scribner’s_ _Arthur Guiterman_ LOVE OF LIFE Love you not the tall trees spreading wide their branches, Cooling with their green shade the sunny days of June? Love you not the little bird lost among the leaflets, Dreamily repeating a quaint, brief tune? Is there not a joy in the waste windy places; Is there not a song by the long dusty way? Is there not a glory in the sudden hour of struggle? Is there not a peace in the long quiet day? Love you not the meadows with the deep lush grasses; Love you not the cloud-flocks noiseless in their flight? Love you not the cool wind that stirs to meet the sunrise; Love you not the stillness of the warm summer night? Have you never wept with a grief that slowly passes; Have you never laughed when a joy goes running by? Know you not the peace of rest that follows labor?-- You have not learnt to live then; how can you dare to die?