#WingedWordsWindsday: 04/27/2022 -- Treelore for Arbor Day

 WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 1, No. 26: April 27, 2022

 

Treelore in Prose and Verse  for Arbor Day: Friday, April 29

 

Excerpt from Chapter 22 of The Age of Fable

By Thomas Bulfinch (1796-1867)

The wood-nymphs, Pan's partners in the dance, were but one class of nymphs. There were beside them the Naiads, who presided over brooks and fountains, the Oreads, nymphs of mountains and grottos, and the Nereids, sea-nymphs. The three last named were immortal, but the wood-nymphs, called Dryads or Hamadryads, were believed to perish with the trees which had been their abode and with which they had come into existence.

 

“Dryad”

By Mary Carolyn Davies (fl. ca. 1918-1924)

 Dryad, hidden in this tree!

Break your bonds and talk to me! 

No one’s watching, only peep

From your cave! The town’s asleep!

No one knows I stand here, so

Come! for they will never know!

Tell me what you think of here

When the Moon is sharp and clear,

When the clouds are over you,

When the ground is wet with dew.

Dryad, are you happy, say!

Do you like to live this way?

I will keep your secrets well,

I will never, never tell!

Dryad, hidden in our tree,

Come, oh, come and talk to me!

 

“Trees”

By Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

 I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

 

“An April Night”

By Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874-1942)

 

The Moon comes up o'er the deeps of the woods,

And the long, low dingles that hide in the hills,

Where the ancient beeches are moist with buds

Over the pools and the whimpering rills;

 

And with her the mists, like dryads that creep

From their oaks, or the spirits of pine-hid springs,

Who hold, while the eyes of the world are asleep,

With the wind on the hills their gay revellings.

 

Down on the marshlands with flicker and glow

Wanders Will-o'-the-Wisp through the night,

Seeking for witch-gold lost long ago

By the glimmer of goblin lantern-light.

 

The night is a sorceress, dusk-eyed and dear,

Akin to all eerie and elfin things,

Who weaves about us in meadow and mere

The spell of a hundred vanished Springs.

 

“Orpheus”

By William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

 

Orpheus with his lute made trees  

And the mountain tops that freeze  

  Bow themselves when he did sing:  

To his music plants and flowers  

Ever sprung; as sun and showers

  There had made a lasting spring.  

 

Everything that heard him play,  

Even the billows of the sea,  

  Hung their heads and then lay by.  

In sweet music is such art,

  Killing care and grief of heart  

  Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

 

Orphic Hymn #50: “To the Nymphs”

Translated by Thomas Taylor (1758-1835)

[With Slight Revisions by the Editor]

 Nymphs, who from Ocean's stream derive your birth,

Who dwell in liquid caverns of the Earth,

Nurses of Bacchus, secret-coursing power,

Who fruits sustain, and nourish every flower:

Earthly, rejoicing, who in meadows dwell,

And caves and dens, whose depths extend to hell:

Holy, oblique, who swiftly soar through air,

Fountains and dews, and mazy streams your care:

Seen and unseen, who joy with wanderings wide

And gentle course, through flowery vales to glide;

With Pan exulting on the mountains’ height,

Loud-sounding, mad, whom rocks and woods delight:

Nymphs odorous, robed in white, whose streams exhale

The breeze refreshing, and the balmy gale;

With goats and pastures pleased, and beasts of prey,

Nurses of fruits, unconscious of decay:

In cold rejoicing, and to cattle kind,

Sportive through ocean, wandering unconfined:

Nysian, fantastic Nymphs, whom oaks delight,

Lovers of Spring, Paeonian maidens bright.

With Bacchus, and with Ceres, hear my prayer.

And to mankind abundant favor bear;

Propitious listen to your suppliant’s voice,

Come, and benignant in these rites rejoice;

Give plenteous Seasons, and sufficient wealth,

And pour, in lasting streams, continued Health.

 

In this 1595 painting by Sebastiaen Vrancx (1573–1647), Orpheus is enchanting the woodland creatures and the trees of the forest with his mystical melodies. (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)