Under the Trees

Under the Trees

I spent my birthday under the trees, where I am always most at home.

  These poems came floating over my thoughts. 

I’ll share them with you in the hopes you too can live out a few wild stanzas under the unresting castles, under the trees.  

A Dream of Trees 

by Mary Oliver

There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees, 

A quiet house, some green and modest acres

A little way from every troubling town, 

A little way from factories, schools, laments.

I would have time, I thought, and time to spare, 

With only streams and birds for company.

To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.

And then it came to me, that so was death, 

A little way away from everywhere.

There is a thing in me that still dreams of trees,

But let it go.  Homesick for moderation, 

Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.  

If any find solution, let him tell it.

Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation

Where, as the times implore our true involvement, 

The blades of every crisis point the way.

I would it were not so, but so it is.

Who ever made music of a mild day?

The Trees

by Philip Larkin

The trees are coming into leaf

Like something almost being said;

The recent buds relax and spread,

Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again

And we grow old?  No they die too,

Their yearly trick of looking new

Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh

In fullgrown thickness every May.

Last year is dead, they seem to say,

Begin afresh, afresh, afresh. 

The Sound of the Trees

by Robert Frost

I wonder about the trees.

Why do we wish to bear

Forever the noise of these

So close to our dwelling place?

We suffer them by the day

Till we lose all measure of pace,

And fixity in our joys, 

And acquire a listening air.

They are that that talks of going

But never gets away;

And that talks no less for knowing, 

As it grows wiser and older, 

That now it means to stay.

My feet tug at the floor

And my head sways to my shoulder

Sometimes when I watch the trees sway, 

From the window or the door.

I shall set forth for somewhere, 

I shall make the reckless choice

Some day when they are in voice

And tossing so as to scare

The white clouds over them on.

I shall have less to say, 

But I shall be gone.