The Maple
by Garrett Krause

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Oh, tenderly deepen the woodland glooms,

And merrily sway the beeches;

Breathe delicately the willow blooms,

And the pines rehearse new speeches;

The elms toss high till they brush the sky, 

Pale catkins the yellow birch launches,

But the tree I love all the greenwood above

Is the maple of sunny branches.

Let who will sing of the hawthorn in spring,

Or the late-leaved linden in summer; 

There’s a word may be for the locust-tree,

That delicate, strange new-comer;

But the maple it glows with the tint of the rose

When pale are the spring-time regions,

And its towers of flame from afar proclaim

The advance of Winter’s legions.

And a greener shade there never was made

Than its summer canopy sifted,

And many a day as beneath it I lay

Has my memory backward drifted

To a pleasant lane I may walk not again,

Leading over a fresh, green hill,

Where a maple stood just clear of the wood—

And oh, to be near it still!

poet - Charles Roberts (1860-1943)

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