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Pine,
Rose and Fleur de Lis
by
Susie Frances Harrison
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THE
TREE
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Was
there no beauty, then, in barren stem,
No symmetry
in jagged twig and limb,
That slow discarding lustrous diadem
Lay etched
upon the sunset’s orange rim?
Were it, too, better never to have been
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A
thing leaf-crowned and wholly, freshly fair;
A being all benignant, purely green,
Sheltered
and sheltering, innocent of care?
Strange—that for half the year the tree
must go
Uncrowned,
unclad, soul-shivering to the blast,
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Each
glossy leaf be trodden deep in snow,
Each acorn
to the ground be roughly cast!
Careless of coming frost aloft it looks,
All
confident of many another spring,
O’er dry, brown fields and saddened, silent
brooks,
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woods where not a bird is left to sing.
This the great secret of its grand content,
This
the full meaning of its giant calm,
This the true measure of the reverent
Straight
mien that springtime’s sweetest airs embalm.
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O, to have been the tree—and not the man!
To grow
in ever wheeling, circling pride,
Conscious of all the noble, gracious plan
That smiled
at Doubt and gave a God to guide!
Think! to have harboured orange oriole,
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And
flaming tanager and chattering jay,
And wise gray sparrow—would not this console
The weariness
born of many a leafless day?
Since it were known—they come again in
five
Or six
months’ time of waiting, then to wait,
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Even
through songless seasons, were to thrive
On sweet
probation, though in sombre state.
Were it not bliss, some melting morn in June,
To look
and see among one’s crumpled leaves—
Late to unfold, but deep at heart in tune
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| With
all of green the young wood interweaves—
A flash of living light, incarnate gem,
That
holds a voice in quivering, ruffled throat,
That hangs, a jewel, on the budding stem.
That
sings a song of Hope—Death’s antidote?
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