What does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants a friend of sun and sky;
He plants the flag of breezes free;
The shaft of beauty, towering high;
He plants a home to heaven anigh;
For song and mother-croon of bird
In hushed and happy twilight heard—
The treble of heaven's harmony—
These things he plants who plants a tree.
What does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants cool shade and tender rain,
And seed and bud of days to be,
And years that fade and flush again;
He plants the glory of the plain;
He plants the forest's heritage;
The harvest of a coming age;
The joy that unborn eyes shall see—
These things he plants who plants a tree.
What does he plant who plants a tree?
He plants, in sap and leaf and wood,
In love of home and loyalty
And far-cast thought of civic good—
His blessings on the neighborhood,
Who in the hollow of His hand
Holds all the growth of all our land—
A nation's growth from sea to sea
Stirs in his heart who plants a tree.
This poem is in the public domain.
In this version, the valley
lime green after rain
rolls its tides before us.
A coyote bush shivers with seed.
We hold out our palms as if catching snow—
our villages of circular tracts
overcast with stars.
We have been moving together in sequence
for thousands of years, paralyzed
only by the question of time.
But now it is autumn under bishop pines—
the young blown down by wind feed
their lichens to the understory.
We follow the deer-path
past the ferns, to the flooded
upper reaches of the estuary.
The channel snakes through horsetails
and hemlock as the forest deepens, rises
behind us and the blue heron,
frozen in the shallows.
The shadow of her long neck ripples.
Somewhere in the rustling tulle reeds
spider is casting her threads to the light
and we spot a crimson-hooded fly agaric,
her toadstool’s gills white
as teeth as the sun
bleeds into the Pacific.
We will walk the trail
until it turns to sand
and wait at the spit’s edge, listening
to the breakers, the seagulls
as they chatter their twilight preparations.
What we won’t understand
about the sound of the sea is no different
than the origin of planets
or the wind’s crystalline structures
irreversibly changing.
The albatross drags her parachute
over the earth’s gaping mouth.
We turn back only for the instant
the four dimensions fold
into a sandcastle—before its towers
are collapsed by waves.
The face that turns
toward the end of its world
dissolves into space—
despite us, the continuum
remains.
Copyright © 2022 by Jennifer Elise Foerster. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on December 20, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.
Into the air like dandelion seed
Or like the spiral of lark into the light
Or fountain into sun. All former sight
From hill or mountain was a mere hint of this.
We gain a new dimension. What had been
Our prison, where we crawled and clung like ants,
We spurn, and vision lying far beneath us.
O naked shape of earth! What green mammelles,
Arteries of gold and silver, turquoise flanks,
Plush jungles now are patterned! As we bank,
The earth tilts; we are level and aloof,
And it spins on and on among the stars.
We poise in air, hang motionless, and see
The planet turns with slow grace of a dancer.
From Roses and Revolutions: The Selected Writings of Dudley Randall, edited by Melba Joyce Boyd © 2009 by Dudley Randall. Reprinted with permission of the editor.
Like a strong tree that in the virgin earth
Sends far its roots through rock and loam and clay,
And proudly thrives in rain or time of dearth,
When the dry waves scare rainy sprites away;
Like a strong tree that reaches down, deep, deep,
For sunken water, fluid underground,
Where the great-ringed unsightly blind worms creep,
And queer things of the nether world abound:
So would I live in rich imperial growth,
Touching the surface and the depth of things,
Instinctively responsive unto both,
Tasting the sweets of being and the stings,
Sensing the subtle spell of changing forms,
Like a strong tree against a thousand storms.
This poem is in the public domain.
Give over to high things the fervent thought
You waste on Earth; let down the righteous bar
Against a wayward peace too dearly bought
Upon this pale and passion-frozen star.
Sweethearts and friends, are they not loyal? Far
More fickle, false, perverse, far more unkind,
Is Earth to those who give her heart and mind.
And you whose lusty youth her snares intrigue,
Who glory in her seas, swear by her clouds,
With Age, man’s foe, Earth ever is in league.
Time resurrects her even while he crowds
Your bloom to dust, and lengthens out your shrouds
A day’s length or a year’s. She will be young
When your last cracked and quivering note is sung.
She will remain the Earth, sufficient still
Though you are gone, and with you that rare loss
That vanishes with your bewildered will;
And there shall flame no red, indignant cross
For you, no quick white scar of wrath emboss
The sky, no blood drip from a wounded moon,
And not a single star chime out of tune.
From Caroling Dusk (Harper & Brothers, 1927), edited by Countee Cullen. This poem is in the public domain.
Mother thought:
First we will run, then we will walk.
She asked, “Do we ramble when we speak in tongues?”
Her lack of supervision made this happen.
The dusk, the dawn, everything in between: a mistake.
The morning,
her aching tooth,
the shovel dulled in daylight—
all digging fire from shallowing rivers.
Translated into English from Diné by the poet.
Nahasdzáán
Amá yaa nitséskees:
Ałtse’ ałghaadiit’aash aado hazhóó’ógo yiit’ash doo.
“T’áá’ádzaagóósh yaadeeltí ahił hwilne’ó?” nihiłné.
Aadóó nihigi’deezį´į´’ígó `ahóót’įįd,
`i`ii`ą´ hayííłką´
t’áá `ał sto’ bita’ doo yá’á’hót’ééh da,
abíní biwoo’naaniigá’
jį´į´go łeezh bee hahalkaadi doo deení’igíí bik’i’dindíín łéh,
t’áá `ałtso
tó áłchį´į´dígó niló˛ó˛ yits’ą´ą´doo’ko˛`hadéézką´’.
From Shapeshift by Sherwin Bitsui. © 2003 Sherwin Bitsui. Reprinted by permission of the University of Arizona Press.
If other planets dark as earth
About dim trembling stars
Carry frail freight of death and birth,
Wild love, and endless wars;
If from far, unseen motes in flight
Life look down questioning
This helpless passage through the night
Is a less lonely thing:
But if unchained through empty space
Drift only shell and fire
What seeks the beauty of this face,
What end has its desire?
A candle in a night of storms,
Blown back and choked with rain,
Holds longer than the mounting forms
That ride time’s hurricane.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on July 25, 2021, by the Academy of American Poets.
She said it softly, without a need
for conviction or romance.
After everything? I asked, ashamed.
That's not the kind of love she meant.
She walked through a field of gray
beetle-pored pine, snags branching
like polished bone. I forget sometimes
how trees look at me with the generosity
of water. I forget all the other
breath I'm breathing in.
Today I learned that trees can't sleep
with our lights on. That they knit
a forest in their language, their feelings.
This is not a metaphor.
Like seeing a face across a crowd,
we are learning all the old things,
newly shined and numbered.
I'm always looking
for a place to lie down
and cry. Green, mossed, shaded.
Or rock-quiet, empty. Somewhere
to hush and start over.
I put on my antlers in the sun.
I walk through the dark gates of the trees.
Grief waters my footsteps, leaving
a trail that glistens.
Copyright © 2020 by Anne Haven McDonnell. From All We Can Save: Truth, Courage, and Solutions for the Climate Crisis (One World, 2020) edited by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson and Katharine K. Wilkinson. Used with the permission of the editors.
Trees need not walk the earth For beauty or for bread; Beauty will come to them Where they stand. Here among the children of the sap Is no pride of ancestry: A birch may wear no less the morning Than an oak. Here are no heirlooms Save those of loveliness, In which each tree Is kingly in its heritage of grace. Here is but beauty’s wisdom In which all trees are wise. Trees need not walk the earth For beauty or for bread; Beauty will come to them In the rainbow— The sunlight— And the lilac-haunted rain; And bread will come to them As beauty came: In the rainbow— In the sunlight— In the rain.
This poem is in the public domain.
When the green lies over the earth, my dear,
A mantle of witching grace,
When the smile and the tear of the young child year
Dimple across its face,
And then flee, when the wind all day is sweet
With the breath of growing things,
When the wooing bird lights on restless feet
And chirrups and trills and sings
To his lady-love
In the green above,
Then oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year,
Yours is the face that I long to have near,
Yours is the face, my dear.
But the green is hiding your curls, my dear,
Your curls so shining and sweet;
And the gold-hearted daisies this many a year
Have bloomed and bloomed at your feet,
And the little birds just above your head
With their voices hushed, my dear,
For you have sung and have prayed and have pled
This many, many a year.
And the blossoms fall,
On the garden wall,
And drift like snow on the green below.
But the sharp thorn grows
On the budding rose,
And my heart no more leaps at the sunset glow.
For oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year,
Yours is the face that I long to have near,
Yours is the face, my dear.
From Caroling Dusk (Harper & Brothers, 1927), edited by Countee Cullen. This poem is in the public domain.
To the memory of Tahar Djaout*
on the day of his funeral
The earth opens and welcomes you Why these cries, these tears these prayers What have they lost What are they looking for those who trouble your refound peace? The earth opens and welcomes you Now you will converse without witnesses O you have things to tell each other and you'll have eternity to do so Yesterday's words tarnished by the tumult will one by one engrave themselves on silence The earth opens and welcomes you She alone has desired you without you making any advances She has waited for you with Penelopian ruses. Her patience was but goodness and it is goodness brings you back to her The earth opens and welcomes you she won't ask you to account for your ephemeral loves daughters of errancy meat stars conceived in the eyes accorded fruits from the vast orchard of life sovereign passions that make sun in the palm's hollow at the tip of the tipsy tongue The earth opens and welcomes you You are naked She is even more naked than you And you are both beautiful in that silent embrace where the hands know how to hold back to avoid violence where the soul's butterfly turns away from this semblance of light to go in search of its source The earth opens and welcomes you Your loved one will find again some day your legendary smile and the mourning will be over Your children will grow up and will read your poems without shame your country will heal as if by miracle when the men exhausted by illusion will go drink from the fountain of your goodness O my friend sleep well you need it for you have worked hard as an honest man Before leaving you left your desk clean well ordered You turned off the lights said a nice word to the guardian And then as you stepped out you looked at the sky its near-painful blue You elegantly smoothed your mustache telling yourself: only cowards consider death to be an end Sleep well my friend Sleep the sleep of the just let us for awhile carry the burden
Créteil, June 4, 1993
*An Algerian journalist and author murdered in Algiers in 1993
From The World's Embrace by Abdellatif Laâbi, translated from the French by Victor Reinking, Anne George, and Edris Makward. Translation copyright © 2003 by Victor Reinking, Anne George, and Edris Makward. Reproduced by permission of City Lights Publishers. All rights reserved.
Where the pulp lifts its germ and the sludge of beauty sighs, where the leaf pulls the branch to the breathy earth, where the rind cracks and buds rust into petals, where the clove steams and cinnamon bark spits out cinnamon air, where roots sweat and the earth boils in curds of steaming mud, where the stem draws up the seed and holds it like a lamb to the sun, where flowers rest their animal heads, there, full throated, limp with seed, lush and smiling is Vegetable-Life. To come upon her you must journey through the rains, and sleep through a night of fish smells; there must be a dead man in a hot room, there must be a basket of figs and plums on the pier, there must be no new ship in the harbor, there must be the sound of flowers falling upon flowers, there must be no children swimming in the salt pools. Where the Flamboyant spills into the vulcan dust, where the wild pig chews up the door frames, where the leper kneads his bones, where the sun is stuffed with guns, where the water flows like honey from the tap, where black flies swell in the gecko's translucent belly, where these are, there is Vegetable-Life: The Sultana of the Vine, The Goddess of the Harvest Gone Bad, The Spectrum Swallower. In an ointment of wild saps, ripe fronds and mosses, tumid wheat, and bareley, Abundance pours down over the head, heavy with pollen and in the puce interrogation of the harvest the intellect sprouts leaves.
From Five Seasons of Obsession: New & Selected Poems, by Ned O'Gorman, published by Books & Co. Copyright © 2001 by Ned O'Gorman. Reprinted by permission of Books & Co. All rights reserved.
The yellow flowers on the grave
make an arch, they lie
on a black stone that lies on the ground
like a black door that will always
remain closed down into the earth,
into it is etched the name
of a great poet who believed
he had nothing more to say,
he threw himself into literal water
and everyone has done their mourning
and been mourned over, and we all
went on with our shopping,
I stare at this photograph of that grave
and think you died like him,
like all the others,
and the yellow flowers
seem angry, they seem to want to refuse
to be placed anywhere but in a vase
next to the living, someday
all of us will have our names
etched where we cannot read them,
she who sealed her envelopes
full of poems about doubt with flowers
called it her “granite lip,” I want mine
to say Lucky Life, and what would
a perfect elegy do? place the flowers
back in the ground? take me
where I can watch him sit eternally
dreaming over his typewriter?
then, at last, will I finally unlearn
everything? and I admit that yes,
while I could never leave
everyone, here at last
I understand these yellow flowers,
the names, the black door
he held open
and you walked through.
Copyright © 2023 by Matthew Zapruder. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on April 18, 2023, by the Academy of American Poets.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
This poem is in the public domain.
When the green lies over the earth, my dear,
A mantle of witching grace,
When the smile and the tear of the young child year
Dimple across its face,
And then flee, when the wind all day is sweet
With the breath of growing things,
When the wooing bird lights on restless feet
And chirrups and trills and sings
To his lady-love
In the green above,
Then oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year,
Yours is the face that I long to have near,
Yours is the face, my dear.
But the green is hiding your curls, my dear,
Your curls so shining and sweet;
And the gold-hearted daisies this many a year
Have bloomed and bloomed at your feet,
And the little birds just above your head
With their voices hushed, my dear,
For you have sung and have prayed and have pled
This many, many a year.
And the blossoms fall,
On the garden wall,
And drift like snow on the green below.
But the sharp thorn grows
On the budding rose,
And my heart no more leaps at the sunset glow.
For oh! my dear, when the youth’s in the year,
Yours is the face that I long to have near,
Yours is the face, my dear.
From Caroling Dusk (Harper & Brothers, 1927), edited by Countee Cullen. This poem is in the public domain.
I watched the dawn come,
Watched the spring dawn come.
And the red sun shouldered his way up
Through the grey, through the blue,
Through the lilac mists.
The quiet of it! The goodness of it!
And one bird awoke, sang, whirred
A blur of moving black against the sun,
Sang again—afar off.
And I stretched my arms to the redness of the sun,
Stretched to my finger tips,
And I laughed.
Ah! It is good to be alive, good to love,
At the dawn,
At the spring dawn.
This poem is in the public domain. Published in Poem-a-Day on March 26, 2022, by the Academy of American Poets.
Twin stars through my purpling pane,
The shriveling husk
Of a yellowing moon on the wane—
And the dusk.
From Caroling Dusk (Harper & Brothers, 1927), edited by Countee Cullen. This poem is in the public domain.
They shut the road through the woods
Seventy years ago.
Weather and rain have undone it again,
And now you would never know
There was once a road through the woods
Before they planted the trees.
It is underneath the coppice and heath,
And the thin anemones.
Only the keeper sees
That, where the ring-dove broods,
And the badgers roll at ease,
There was once a road through the woods.
Yet, if you enter the woods
Of a summer evening late,
When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools
Where the otter whistles his mate,
(They fear not men in the woods,
Because they see so few.)
You will hear the beat of a horse’s feet,
And the swish of a skirt in the dew,
Steadily cantering through
The misty solitudes,
As though they perfectly knew
The old lost road through the woods.
But there is no road through the woods.
This poem is in the public domain.
Solstice dabbles behind the hills, whitefire at the horizon well into what should be evening, well into after, meting out to what should be the privacy of night illumination enough to fray the sky.
Black wings snuff out the owlish air in the cottonwood’s elephant silhouette, readying a backlit section of branches for the wind’s beckoning, the shush of each restacking wing not an endearment exactly, but close.
The one track mind combs the mown meadow for the word bristling beneath cut tongues of grass, which is the word of the scavenging animal whose prayer is most like the light’s gestures on the seventh longest day of the century’s seventh year, which undo themselves expertly.
Lightning precedes thunder the way the river precedes stone through untrammeled channels of interface, visitors and visiteds and the rain, pricking.
To the voice that calls in the woods, Come back, I’ll throw the stone you whimpered for, the animal demurs, is perfection, is diminishing, does not pause to look back.
This earth-in-paragraph recovers its fathomlessness subsequent to jackknifing grass.
Copyright © 2008 by Cecily Parks. “How from Politeness to the Trees” originally appeared in Field Folly Snow (University of Georgia Press, 2008). Used with permission of the author.