The Old Tree

The tree beyond my window is my friend; When little light winds ruffle it, Or snow-storms come and muffle it, It brings me wealth of beauty without end!

Though over it in waves the years have rolled, Yet April so bewitches it, And sunshine so enriches it, It blossoms in a foam of fairy gold!

It knows the beating of the Autumn rain; Mad storms have rent and riven it, Wild winds have bent and driven it, Still in the Springtime, it is young again.

Its leaves are patterned like an ancient lace; In truth it gives such dreams to me, On moon-light nights it seems to me, Through silver boughs I glimpse a dryad's face!

I would I knew the tales that it could tell;— But while the robins' nest in it, And folded wings find rest in it, It is content,—and keeps its secrets well.