Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse

The City Tree

Isabella Valancy Crawford (1850–1887)

I STAND within the stony, arid town,

I gaze for ever on the narrow street,

I hear for ever passing up and down

The ceaseless tramp of feet.

I know no brotherhood with far-locked woods,

Where branches bourgeon from a kindred sap,

Where o’er mossed roots, in cool, green solitudes,

Small silver brooklets lap.

No emerald vines creep wistfully to me

And lay their tender fingers on my bark;

High may I toss my boughs, yet never see

Dawn’s first most glorious spark.

When to and fro my branches wave and sway,

Answ’ring the feeble wind that faintly calls,

They kiss no kindred boughs, but touch alway

The stones of climbing walls.

My heart is never pierced with song of bird;

My leaves know nothing of that glad unrest

Which makes a flutter in the still woods heard

When wild birds build a nest.

There never glance the eyes of violets up,

Blue, into the deep splendour of my green;

Nor falls the sunlight to the primrose cup

My quivering leaves between.

Not mine, not mine to turn from soft delight

Of woodbine breathings, honey sweet and warm;

With kin embattled rear my glorious height

To greet the coming storm!

Not mine to watch across the free, broad plains

The whirl of stormy cohorts sweeping fast,

The level silver lances of great rains

Blown onward by the blast!

Not mine the clamouring tempest to defy,

Tossing the proud crest of my dusky leaves—

Defender of small flowers that trembling lie

Against my barky greaves!

Not mine to watch the wild swan drift above,

Balanced on wings that could not choose between

The wooing sky, blue as the eye of love,

And my own tender green!

And yet my branches spread, a kingly sight,

In the close prison of the drooping air;

When sun-vexed noons are at their fiery height

My shade is broad, and there

Come city toilers, who their hour of ease

Weave out to precious seconds as they lie

Pillowed on horny hands, to hear the breeze

Through my great branches die.

I see no flowers, but as the children race

With noise and clamour through the dusty street,

I see the bud of many an angel face,

I hear their merry feet.

No violets look up, but, shy and grave,

The children pause and lift their crystal eyes

To where my emerald branches call and wave

As to the mystic skies.