Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WILLOW, by JAMES RYDER RANDALL Poet's Biography First Line: My parent stem was nurtured in the soil Last Line: And who that sorcery will dare impeach? Subject(s): Willow Trees | ||||||||
MY parent stem was nurtured in the soil Of St. Helena, near the grave of him Who shook the world in many a battle-broil, And died a captive where dark waters swim, In that lone isle of Afric's subtle coil A memory no time or age may dim. Torn from that ever memorable tree, I was borne long and weary miles away, Across a mighty waste of restless sea, To be enrooted in the honored clay That guards the noblest son of Liberty Asleep, awaiting the eternal day. So, after mingling with heroic dust Napoleon, WashingtonI came at last To find a final resting place, I trust; Where the Savannah's tawny tide glides past A city venerable and august In a glad garden I was fondly cast. I bravely grew, wooed by a Southern sun, A graceful tree, with opulence of tress. The vital sap through all my fibers spun, And dainty damsels gave me their caress. A lovely matron all my senses won, And so I longed her happy home to bless. Anon, the winter stripped me of my leaves, Until I stood disheveled and forlorn; But still my tropic heart clung to the eaves Of that dear household, in the night and morn. Soon the lord Spring, who blesses and reprieves, Poured emerald largess o'er my features worn. How have I thrilled when they I loved were gay, In the warm sunshine and the alert breeze! When round the festal board wit ruled the day And wisdom was espoused to pleasantries. How have I wished such happiness could stay, Unsmitten always with sad memories! Alas! there came a dread, dissolving scene To snap the jocund circle of my friends! So, one by one, they fled all things terrene, To seek the mystic shore that never ends Where mortal must on the immortal lean, Where the true ideal with the real blends. The reverend grandsire left my grateful shade And baby eyes beheld my form no more; The dazzling lawyer in the sod was laid; The keen preceptor fell, with all his lore; The brilliant master slumbers in the glade Not lost, but in due meekness gone before. Still lingers my sweet matron, gravely bright, With stalwart sons and daughters tall and grand. They stand between her and the ghosts who might Become a mournful, melancholy band. I watch her, when the hours are aflight, Her gaze uplifted to the shining strand! Perchance, you think a willow has no tongue, No sentient touch, nor article of speech, No power to soothe the heart, in anguish wrung, No message to impart or moral teach. But lo! a poet all my dreams has sung, And who that sorcery will dare impeach? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HUNTING PHEASANTS IN A CORNFIELD by ROBERT BLY SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: COLUMBUS CHENEY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS WILLOW SONG; FOR FRANCES HOROWITZ by ANNE STEVENSON LANDSCAPES (FOR CLEMENT R. WOOD) by LOUIS UNTERMEYER WILLOW POEM by WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS THE WILLOWS by FRANCIS BRET HARTE PUSSY WILLOWS by ELIZABETH BRADY TREES IN AUTUMN by ANNE MILLAY BREMER JOHN PELHAM by JAMES RYDER RANDALL |
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