The Pines

Couldst thou, Great Fairy, give to me The instant’s wish, that I might see Of all the earth’s that one dear sight Known only in a dream’s delight, I would, beneath some island steep, In some remote and sun-bright deep, See high in heaven above me now A palm-tree wave its rhythmic bough! And yet this old pine’s haughty crown, Shaking its clouds of silver down, Whispers me snatches of strange tunes And murmur of those awful runes Which tell by subtle spell, and power Of secret sympathies, the hour When far in the dark North the snow Among great bergs begins to blow. Nay, thou sweet South of heats and balms, Keep all thy proud and plumy palms, Keep all thy fragrant flowery ease, Thy purple skies, thy purple seas! These boughs of blessing shall not fail, These voices singing in the gale, The vigor of these mighty lines: I will content me with my pines!