The Oxford Book of Canadian Verse
The City TreeIsabella Valancy Crawford (18501887)
I
I gaze for ever on the narrow street,
I hear for ever passing up and down
The ceaseless tramp of feet.
Where branches bourgeon from a kindred sap,
Where o’er mossed roots, in cool, green solitudes,
Small silver brooklets lap.
And lay their tender fingers on my bark;
High may I toss my boughs, yet never see
Dawn’s first most glorious spark.
Answ’ring the feeble wind that faintly calls,
They kiss no kindred boughs, but touch alway
The stones of climbing walls.
My leaves know nothing of that glad unrest
Which makes a flutter in the still woods heard
When wild birds build a nest.
Blue, into the deep splendour of my green;
Nor falls the sunlight to the primrose cup
My quivering leaves between.
Of woodbine breathings, honey sweet and warm;
With kin embattled rear my glorious height
To greet the coming storm!
The whirl of stormy cohorts sweeping fast,
The level silver lances of great rains
Blown onward by the blast!
Tossing the proud crest of my dusky leaves—
Defender of small flowers that trembling lie
Against my barky greaves!
Balanced on wings that could not choose between
The wooing sky, blue as the eye of love,
And my own tender green!
In the close prison of the drooping air;
When sun-vexed noons are at their fiery height
My shade is broad, and there
Weave out to precious seconds as they lie
Pillowed on horny hands, to hear the breeze
Through my great branches die.
With noise and clamour through the dusty street,
I see the bud of many an angel face,
I hear their merry feet.
The children pause and lift their crystal eyes
To where my emerald branches call and wave
As to the mystic skies.