The Aspen Tree

The quiet of the evening hour
    Was laid on every summer leaf;
That purple shade was on each flower,
    At once so beautiful, so brief,

Only the aspen knew not rest,
    But still, with an unquiet song,
Kept murmuring to the gentle west,
    And cast a changeful shade along.

Not for its beauty—other trees
    Had greener boughs, and statelier stem;
And those had fruit, and blossoms these,
    Yet still I chose this tree from them.

'Tis a strange thing, this depth of love
    Which dwells within the human heart;
From earth below to heaven above,
    In each, in all, it fain has part.

It must find sympathy, or make;
    And hence beliefs, the fond, the vain,
The thousand shapes that fancies take,
    To bind the fine connecting chain.

We plant pale flowers beside the tomb,
    And love to see them droop and fade;
For every leaf that sheds its bloom
    Seems like a natural tribute paid.

Thus Nature soothes the grief she shares:
    What are the flowers we hold most dear?
The one whose haunted beauty wears
    The sign of human thought or tear.

Why hold the violet and rose
    A place within the heart, denied
To fairer foreign flowers, to those
    To earlier memories allied?

Like those frail leaves, each restless thought
    Fluctuates in my weary mind;
Uncertain tree! my fate was wrought
    In the same loom where thine was twined.

And thus from other trees around
    Did I still watch the aspen tree,
Because in its unrest I found
    Somewhat of sympathy with me.