The Heart of the Tree

WHAT does he plant who plants a tree?

        He plants a friend of sun and sky;

He plants the flag of breezes free;

The shaft of beauty, towering high. He plants a home to heaven anigh

For song and mother-croon of bird

In hushed and happy twilight heard --

The treble of heaven's harmony --

These things he plants who plants a tree.

What does he plant who plants a tree?

         He plants cool shade and tender rain,

And seed and bud of days to be,

And years that fade and flush again;

He plants the glory of the plain;

He plants the forest's heritage;

The harvest of a coming age;

They joy that unborn eyes shall see --

These things he plants who plants a tree.

What does he plant who plants a tree?

         He plants, in sap and leaf and wood,

In love of home and loyalty

And far-cast thought of civic good --

His blessing on the neighborhood

Who in the hollow of His hand

Holds all the growth of all our land --

A nation's growth from sea to sea

Stirs in his heart who plants a tree.

Henry Cuyler Bunner

The Way to Arcady

OH, what's the way to Arcady,

  To Arcady, To Arcady;

Oh, what's the way to Arcady,

  Where all the leaves are merry?

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?

The spring is rustling in the tree,--

The tree the wind is blowing through,--

  It sets the blossoms flickering white.

I knew not skies could burn so blue

  Nor any breezes blow so light.

They blow an old-time way for me,

Across the world to Arcady.

Oh, what's the way to Arcady?

Sir poet, with the rusty coat,

Quit mocking of the song-bird's note.

How have you heart for any tune,

You with the wayworn russet shoon?

Your scrip, a-swinging by your side,

Gapes with a gaunt mouth hungry-wide.

I'll brim it well with pieces red,

If you will tell the way to tread.

Oh, I am bound for Arcady,

And if you but keep pace with me

You tread the way to Arcady.

And where away lies Arcady,

And how long yet may the journey be?

Ah, that (quoth he) I do not know:

Across the clover and the snow--

Across the frost, across the flowers--

Through summer seconds and winter hours,

I've trod the way my whole life long,

  And know not now where it may be,

My guide is but the stir to song,

That tells me I cannot go wrong,

  Or clear or dark the pathway be

  Upon the road to Arcady.

But how shall I who cannot sing?

  I was wont to sing, once on a time,--

There is never an echo now to ring

  Remembrance back to the trick of rhyme.

'Tis strange you cannot sing (quoth he),--

The folk all sing in Arcady.

But how may he find Arcady

Who hath nor youth nor melody?

What, know you not, old man (quoth he),--

  Your hair is white, your face is wise,--

  That Love must kiss that Mortal's eyes

Who hopes to see fair Arcady?

No gold can buy you entrance there;

But beggered Love may go all bare--

No wisdom won with weariness;

But Love goes in with Folly's dress--

No fame that wit could ever win;

But only Love may lead Love in

  To Arcady, to Arcady.

Ah, woe is me, through all my days

  Wisdom and wealth I both have got,

And fame and name, and great men's praise;

  But Love, ah Love! I have it not.

There was a time, when life was new--

  But far away, and half forgot--

I only know her eyes were blue;

  But Love--I fear I knew it not.

We did not wed, for lack of gold,

And she is dead, and I am old.

All things have come since then to me,

Save Love, ah Love! and Arcady.

Ah, then I fear we part (quoth he),--

My way's for Love and Arcady.

But you, you fare alone, like me;

  The gray is likewise in your hair.

  What love have you to lead you there,

  To Arcady, to Arcady?

Ah, no, not lonely do I fare;

  My true companion's Memory.

With Love he fills the Spring-time air;

  With Love he clothes the Winter tree.

Oh, past this poor horizon's bound

  My song goes straight to one who stands,--

Her face all gladdening at the sound,--

  To lead me to the Spring-green lands,

To wander with enlacing hands.

The songs within my breast that stir

Are all of her, are all of her.

My maid is dead long years (quoth he),--

She waits for me in Arcady.

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,

  To Arcady, to Arcady;

Oh, yon's the way to Arcady,

  Where all the leaves are merry.

Henry Cuyler Bunner

A Pitcher of Mignonette

A PITCHER of mignonette

  In a tenement's highest casement,--

Queer sort of flower-pot--yet

That pitcher of mignonette

Is a garden in heaven set,

  To the little sick child in the basement--

The pitcher of mignonette,

  In the tenement's highest casement.

Henry Cuyler Bunner

Feminine

SHE might have known it in the earlier Spring,--

  That all my heart with vague desire was stirred;

And, ere the Summer winds had taken wing,

  I told her; but she smiled and said no word.

The Autumn's eager hand his red gold grasped,

  And she was silent; till from skies grown drear

Fell soft one fine, first snow-flake, and she clasped

  My neck and cried, "Love, we have lost a year!"

Henry Cuyler Bunner