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| Benjamin Brecknell Turner The Church Oak, Hawkhurst ca. 1852-54 albumen print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| Anonymous photographer Ancient trees ca. 1850-60 albumen print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| Thomas Carmichael Tree study ca. 1880-89 albumen print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| Magnus Jackson Ancient tree with seated group ca. 1870-80 albumen print National Galleries of Scotland |
The Speaking Tree
Great Alexander sailing was from his true course turned
By a young wind from a cloud in Asia moving
Like a most recognizable most silvery woman;
Tall Alexander to the island came.
The small breeze blew behind his turning head.
He walked the foam of ripples into this scene.
The trunk of the speaking tree looks like a tree-trunk
Until you look again. Then people and animals
Are ripening on the branches; the broad leaves
Are leaves; pale horses, sharp fine foxes
Blossom; the red rabbit falls
Ready and running. The trunk coils, turns,
Snakes, fishes. Now the ripe people fall and run,
Three of them in their shore-dance, flames that stand
Where reeds are creatures and the foam is flame.
Stiff Alexander stands. He cannot turn.
But he is free to turn : this is the speaking tree,
It calls your name. It tells us what we mean.
– Muriel Rukeyser (1962)
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| Anonymous photographer Woodland with tree in foreground ca. 1870 albumen print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| George Washington Wilson Trees on the grounds at Dunkeld ca. 1870 albumen print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| Anonymous photographer Trees in parkland ca. 1850 calotype print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| Anonymous photographer Hoarfrost on trees, viewed from terrace ca. 1870-80 albumen print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| Anonymous photographer Ancient trees ca. 1850-60 albumen print National Galleries of Scotland |
The Tree
Fair tree! for thy delightful shade
'Tis just that some return be made;
Sure some return is due from me
To thy cool shadows, and to thee.
When thou to birds dost shelter give,
Thou music dost from them receive;
If travellers beneath thee stay
Till storms have worn themselves away,
That time in praising thee they spend
And thy protecting pow'r commend.
The shepherd here, from scorching freed,
Tunes to thy dancing leaves his reed;
Whilst his lov'd nymph, in thanks, bestows
Her flow'ry chaplets on thy boughs.
Shall I then only silent be,
And no return be made by me?
No; let this wish upon thee wait,
And still to flourish be thy fate.
To future ages may'st thou stand
Untouch'd by the rash workman's hand,
Till that large stock of sap is spent,
Which gives thy summer's ornament;
Till the fierce winds, that vainly strive
To shock thy greatness whilst alive,
Shall on thy lifeless hour attend,
Prevent the axe, and grace thy end;
Their scatter'd strength together call
And to the clouds proclaim thy fall;
Who then their ev'ning dews may spare
When thou no longer art their care,
But shalt, like ancient heroes, burn,
And some bright hearth be made thy urn.
– Anne Finch, Countess of Winchilsea (1661-1720)
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| Anonymous photographer Tree trunk ca. 1850 calotype print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| Anonymous photographer Tree ca. 1850 calotype print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| William Donaldson Clark Three figures in a tree-lined lane ca. 1864 albumen print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| Robert Tennent Landscape with gum trees, South Australia ca. 1850 calotype print National Galleries of Scotland |
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| Anonymous photographer Tree ca. 1850 calotype print National Galleries of Scotland |
She's never had a garden in her life,
this daughter here, but thinks she knows enough
about trees to tell him it's an elm.
He knows it's not an elm. The trunk's not rough
enough, he tells her, tugging at a lip
of bark, then stepping back to scan the crown.
Listen – he knows his trees, and flowers too.
Back home he had to cut his sick elms down
one spring, the spring his pin oak bulged and broke
the bench he'd made to circle it. Their rosebush –
only he knew how far back to trim,
or how long one low rose would take to push
open. They walk the six blocks back, heat
from concrete rising around her high-rise
and cicadas grinding their whines higher,
higher. He doesn't like to criticize
his children's lives. No matter where they go
he'll always visit and only once left,
still bitter, under a white summer sky.
It's better just to keep things to yourself.
A bright book hits the table with a slap –
Trees of the World. After she leaves for work
he closes his eyes, trying to see the tree.
Maybe he'd better have another look,
he thinks, carrying the book six blocks back
to where they stood a little while ago.
It's an elm. The words crawl up into his chest.
Ulmus. Elm. Why didn't he know?
He hears his heart, he feels himself skid down
a steep slope. No. He's on level ground.
He's here, on a city's grid where daughters glide
along macadam in their compact cars.
He spreads his hands out on the furrowed bark.
– Debra Bruce (1988)
Poems from the archives of Poetry (Chicago)