Trees and Other Poems — 1 - Trees * To My Mother * The Twelve Forty-Five * Pennies * Stars * Old Poets

Trees (For Mrs. Henry Mills Alden) I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth's sweet 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.

Stars (For the Rev. James J. Daly, S. J.

) Bright stars, yellow stars, flashing through the air, Are you errant strands of Lady Mary's hair?

As she slits the cloudy veil and bends down through, Do you fall across her cheeks and over heaven too?

Gay stars, little stars, you are little eyes, Eyes of baby angels playing in the skies.

Now and then a winged child turns his merry face Down toward the spinning world -- what a funny place!

Jesus Christ came from the Cross (Christ receive my soul!

) In each perfect hand and foot there was a bloody hole.

Four great iron spikes there were, red and never dry, Michael plucked them from the Cross and set them in the sky.

Christ's Troop, Mary's Guard, God's own men, Draw your swords and strike at Hell and strike again.

Every steel-born spark that flies where God's battles are, Flashes past the face of God, and is a star.

Old Poets (For Robert Cortez Holliday) If I should live in a forest And sleep underneath a tree, No grove of impudent saplings Would make a home for me.

I'd go where the old oaks gather, Serene and good and strong, And they would not sigh and tremble And vex me with a song.

The pleasantest sort of poet Is the poet who's old and wise, With an old white beard and wrinkles About his kind old eyes.

For these young flippertigibbets A-rhyming their hours away They won't be still like honest men And listen to what you say.

The young poet screams forever About his sex and his soul;

But the old man listens, and smokes his pipe, And polishes its bowl.

There should be a club for poets Who have come to seventy year.

They should sit in a great hall drinking Red wine and golden beer.

They would shuffle in of an evening, Each one to his cushioned seat, And there would be mellow talking And silence rich and sweet.

There is no peace to be taken With poets who are young, For they worry about the wars to be fought And the songs that must be sung.

But the old man knows that he's in his chair And that God's on His throne in the sky.

So he sits by the fire in comfort And he lets the world spin by.