Or, when the day is done, And the warm splendors make the oak-top flush, Hear him, full-throated in the setting sun,-- The darling wildwood thrush. O sanctuary shade Enfold one round! I would no longer roam: Let not the thought of wandering e'er invade This still, reclusive home! Draw closer, O ye trees! Veil from my sight e'en the loved mountain's blue; The world may be more fair beyond all these, Yet I would know but you! LLOYD MIFFLIN TREES In the Garden of Eden, planted by God, There were goodly trees in the springing sod,-- Trees of beauty and height and grace, To stand in splendor before His face. Apple and hickory, ash and pear, Oak and beech and the tulip rare, The trembling aspen, the noble pine, The sweeping elm by the river line; Trees for the birds to build and sing, And the lilac tree for a joy in spring; Trees to turn at the frosty call And carpet the ground for their Lord's footfall; Trees for fruitage and fire and shade, Trees for the cunning builder's trade; Wood for the bow, the spear, and the flail, The keel and the mast of the daring sail; He made them of every grain and girth, For the use of man in the Garden of Earth. Then lest the soul should not lift her eyes From the gift to the Giver of Paradise, On the crown of a hill, for all to see, God planted a scarlet maple tree. BLISS CARMAN THE TREES There's something in a noble tree-- What shall I say? a soul? For 'tis not form, or aught we see In leaf or branch or bole. Some presence, though not understood, Dwells there alway, and seems To be acquainted with our mood, And mingles in our dreams. I would not say that trees at all Were of our blood and race, Yet, lingering where their shadows fall, I sometimes think I trace A kinship, whose far-reaching root Grew when the world began, And made them best of all things mute To be the friends of man. Held down by whatsoever might Unto an earthly sod, They stretch forth arms for air and light, As we do after God; And when in all their boughs the breeze Moans loud, or softly sings, As our own hearts in us, the trees Are almost human things. What wonder in the days that burned With old poetic dream, Dead Phaëthon's fair sisters turned To poplars by the stream! In many a light cotillion stept The trees when fluters blew; And many a tear, 'tis said, they wept For human sorrow too.