I never feel afraid Among the trees; Of trees are houses made; And even with these, Unhewn, untouched, unseen, Is something homelike in the safe sweet green, Intimate in the shade. * * * * * We are all brothers! Come, let's rest awhile In the great kinship. Underneath the trees Let's be at home once more, with birds and bees And gnats and soil and stone. With these I must Acknowledge family ties. Our mother, the dust, With wistful and investigating eyes Searches my soul for the old sturdiness, Valor, simplicity! Stout virtues these, We learned at her dear knees. Friend, you and I Once played together in the good old days. Do you remember? Why, brother, down what wild ways We traveled, when-- That's right! Draw close to me! Come now, let's tell the tale beneath the old roof-tree. ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH A GARDEN FRIEND O comrade tree, perhaps alive as I-- One process lacking of this mortal clay-- Give me your constant outlook to the sky, The courtesy and cheer that fill your day. Your noble gift of perfect service teach; Your wisdom in the wild storm softly bent Aware 'twill end; your patience that can reach Across the years from clod to firmament. CATHERINE MARKHAM (MRS. EDWIN MARKHAM) A LADY OF THE SNOWS The mountain hemlock droops her lacy branches Oh, so tenderly In the summer sun! Yet she has power to baffle avalanches-- She, rising slenderly Where the rivers run. So pliant yet so powerful! Oh, see her Spread alluringly Her thin sea-green dress! Now from white winter's thrall the sun would free her To bloom unenduringly In his glad caress. HARRIET MONROE THE TREE Spread, delicate roots of my tree, Feeling, clasping, thrusting, growing; Sensitive pilgrim root tips roaming everywhere. Into resistant earth your filaments forcing, Down in the dark, unknown, desirous: The strange ceaseless life of you, eating and drinking of earth, The corrosive secretions of you, breaking the stuff of the world to your will. Tips of my tree in the springtime bursting to terrible beauty, Folded green life, exquisite, holy exultant; I feel in you the splendour, the autumn of ripe fulfilment, Love and labour and death, the sacred pageant of life. In the sweet curled buds of you, In the opening glory of leaves, tissues moulded of green light; Veined, cut, perfect to type, Each one like a child of high lineage bearing the sigil of race.