Grey tree within the churchyard old,
Why stir thy leaves to-night?
Why moan thy branches in the cold
And shake as with affright?
The grass grows rank, and dull decay
Eats with its mossy stains
The stones where names are worn away
By centuries of rains.
But there has come no change for thee
Save what each season forms;
Broad summer ever fair to see,
And winter with its storms.
Thou, too, hast seen the young and old
Laid in their last, long rest,
Thy leaves have fallen on their mould
Like blessings on their breast.
And thou hast heard, amid the calm
Of long past Sabbath days,
The preacher's voice, the sound of psalm
That rose in humble praise.
But now instead of psalm on high
Thou hast the curlew shrill,
The bleating of the sheep that lie
Along Glen Aylmer Hill.
The shadow of the sailing cloud,
The long, long summer day,
The whisper of the stream, half loud,
That tinkles on its way.
Grey tree within the churchyard old,
How stir thy leaves to-night,
How moan thy branches in the cold,
Why shake as with affright?
Why should I think of thee within
The narrow eager street,
Who standest far from all the din,
Where every sound is sweet.
The rippling streamlet half in view,
The curlew loud and shrill;
The shepherd's sudden whistle to
His helpmate on the hill:
All these are sweet, and I could sleep
Like any wearied child,
Were I but there one day to keep
A tryst amid the wild.
Perchance my early dreams that sunk,
As ships gone down at sea
When the wild waves with hate are drunk,
Might come again to me.
And I should steep myself in rest,
As trees when winds have fled,
And draw the canker from the breast,
The fever from the head.
The thoughts that only come to chill,
As all such thoughts must do,
And fling on lonely stream and hill
A sadder light to view;
A sense of something passed away,
A look that speaks of tears,
Such looks as lovers give when they
Meet after many years.
Come back, come back, O, early dreams,
When love and hope were high;
Come back, thou voice within the streams,
Thou light within the sky.
Touch, as ye touched in days of old,
Each mute though breathing thing;
And wove with sunshine as with gold,
A link from spring to spring.
Bring back those hours in which I bent,
And heard in tender awe
Love speak with passionate tones, that sent
A thrill through all I saw.
They come not—nay, will never come—
Though springs bloom to the last;
The voices that I heard are dumb,
They were but for the past.
Grey tree within the churchyard old,
How sound thy leaves to-night!
How moan thy branches in the cold,
And toss in wild affright!
Thou know'st the storm in all its might,
The spring and summer thrills;
And thou hast known the staid delight
That beams along the hills.
But thou hast never known the keen
Wild throbbing of the street,
Nor heard in narrow ways between,
The sound of pitiless feet.
Thou hast not heard the low, sad cry
Of pent-up breathing life;
The rush of passions fierce and high—
The winds of human strife.
Thou hast not known our human fears—
The fears we cannot name;
Nor hast thou felt the doom of tears
That follows wrong and shame.
These must be ours, but thine are still
The murmur of the stream,
The light and shadow on the hill,
The sunshine and the gleam.