Poems (Hardy)/My beech-tree
MY BEECH-TREE
I KNOW a tree whose branches meet
Above my head, beneath my feet,
In arches green, in shadows sweet.
Above my head, beneath my feet,
In arches green, in shadows sweet.
I know not whether now its leaves
Still whisper in October eves,
Or May its springtime splendor weaves.
Still whisper in October eves,
Or May its springtime splendor weaves.
It may be dead and turned to dust,
But somewhere, still, persistent trust
Believes it lives, is sure it must.
But somewhere, still, persistent trust
Believes it lives, is sure it must.
Though cooler reason would put by
This subtle theme with how, and why,
This faith survives,—it did not die.
This subtle theme with how, and why,
This faith survives,—it did not die.
Within my thought its branches wave,
Its rain-wet leaves my forehead lave,
It still gives all that once it gave.
Its rain-wet leaves my forehead lave,
It still gives all that once it gave.
Yet, half way up in its strong arms,
I sit and feel the thrill that charms
Its own cool life and mine from harms.
I sit and feel the thrill that charms
Its own cool life and mine from harms.
No leaf of it can ever fade;
In something of myself arrayed,
It was therewith immortal made.
In something of myself arrayed,
It was therewith immortal made.