TREES[55] 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 flowing 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. MARTIN[56] When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin’s ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me. Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft gray hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair. How good, that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the bleak and sombre earth. Some people ask: What cruel chance Made Martin’s life so sad a story? Martin? Why, he exhaled romance And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,— Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive, ancient child. Because it was old Martin’s lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress. Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success. _Shaemas O Sheel_ Shaemas O Sheel (Shields) was born September 19, 1886, in New York City. After graduating from high school, he revived the ancient Gaelic form of his family name and identified himself with the cause of Ireland in America.