There was a lovely tree, I knew
And well remember where it grew,
And very often felt inclined
To hear its whispers in the wind.
One evening of a summer day
I went, without a thought, that way,
And, sitting down, I seem’d to hear
The tree’s soft voice, and some one’s near.
Yes, sure enough I saw a maid
With wakeful ear against it laid.
Silent was everything around
While thus the tree in quivering sound:
“They pant to cull our fruit, and take
A leaf, they tell us, for our slake,
On the most faithful breast to wear
And keep it, till both perish, there.
Sad pity such kind hearts should pant
So hard! We give them all they want.
They come soon after and just taste
The fruit, and throw it on the waste.
Again they come, and then pluck off
What poets call our hair, and scoff;
And long ere winter you may see
These leaves fall fluttering round the tree.
They come once more: then, then you find
The root cut round and undermined:
Chains are clencht round it: that fine head,
On which still finer words were said,
Serves only to assist the blow,
And lend them aid to lay it low.”
Methinks I hear a gentle sigh,
And fain would guess the reason why;
It may have been for what was said
Of fruit and leaves, of root and head.