ARBOR DA V MANUAL. 
243 
For hand of Jotun, where mid snow and mist 
He holds unwield}' revel. 
The friend of all the winds, wide-armed he towers 
And glints his steely aglets in the sun. 
***** and I 
Will hold it true that in this willow dwells 
The open-handed spirit, frank and blithe, 
Of ancient Hospitality, long since 
With ceremonious thrift bowed out of doors. 
In June’t is good to lie beneath a tree 
While the blithe season comforts every sense, 
Steeps all the brain in rest, and heals the heart 
Brimming it o’er with sweetness unawares, 
Fragrant and silent as that rosy snow 
Wherewith the pitying apple-tree fills up 
And tenderly lines some last-year robin’s nest. 
Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring, 
As to an oak, and precious more and more, 
Without deservingness or help of ours, 
They grow, and, silent, wider spread, each year, 
Their unbought ring of shelter or of shade. 
Sacred to me the lichens on the bark, 
While Nature’s milliners would scrape away; 
Most dear and sacred every withered limb ! 
’T’s good to set them early, for our faith 
Pines as we age, and, after wrinkles come, 
Few plant, but water dead ones with vain tears. 
This willow is as old to me, as life; 
And under it full often have I stretched, 
Feeling the warm earth like a thing alive, 
And gathering virtue in at every pore 
Till it possessed me wholly, and thought ceased, 
Or was transfused in something to which thought 
Is coarse and dull of sense. Myself was lost, 
Gone from me like an ache, and what remained 
Became a part of the universal joy. 
My soul went forth, and, mingling with the tree, 
Danced in the leaves; or floating in the cloud, 
Saw its white double in the stream below. 
Lowell. 
