IN FRENCH FIELDS.
211
THE WILLOWS.
I love the willow's mossy trunk
That bends beside the river!
Sprays veil its shoulders rough and shrunk,
And o'er the waters quiver.
Arid it looks, and gaunt, and stark,
As slant it forward presses,
Time hardens into scales its bark,
But crowns its brow with tresses.
Upon its mosses taking root
Green herb and blossom ruddy
A picture form, as up they shoot,
That painters long might study.
Neglected, frail of frame, deep-scarred,
It typifies the poet!
A dream of spring both love to guard,
And each is proud to show it.
In childhood's days of joy intense,
O willow old and hoary!
How oft thy twigs through hedge and fence
I've gathered in their glory.
