Trees of Wharncliffe House

Oh, green and leafy Wharncliffe treesThat tremble to and fro,You rustle in the languid breezeAnd catch the evening glow.Across the dusty gloomy street,I note your tender sheen,But unto me it is not sweet,Who see what I have seen.

The slender Coco palms I craveBeside a purple sea,Where every phosphorescent waveLeaps up in ecstasy,Towards the tangled stars aboveThat sparkle in the blue,These are the things I know and love.How can I care for you?

I always feel a sense of lossIf, at the close of day,I cannot see the Southern CrossBreak through the gathered grey,

Nor watch the liquid moonlight gleamAmong the temples white,And realise that lovely dream,We call an Eastern night.

Though I, impatient of the heat,Forth from the window leanTo cool my sight across the streetAmidst your shaded green,Your leaves, refreshed by summer showers,Are naught to me, who feastMy fancy on those other flowersThat burn about the East.

For I have seen the Lotus bloomOn lakes like inland seas,And white Magnolias, through the gloom,Moonlike among the trees.Have watched the pale Tuberose, aglowWith phosphorescent light,And Water-lilies lying lowOn sacred tanks at night.

Have wandered where the Moghra flowersExhale their scent at noon,And dreamt sweet dreams where Jasmin bowersGrow white beneath the moon.Have seen the Poppies' crimson waveO'erflow the land for milesAnd Roses, on an Eastern graveTurn even Death to smiles.

By night, my fancy spreads her wingsIn visions that console,But all day long, remembered thingsAre dragging at my soul.I want the silver on the sea,The surf along the shore,The ruined Mosque, whose weeds grow free,Where Princes prayed of yore.

I want the lonely, level sandsStretched out beneath the sun,The sadness of the old, old lands,Whose destiny is done,The glory and the grace, that clingAbout the mountain crestWhere tombs of many a faithless kingGuard, faithfully, their rest.

Not lightly would I speak of Love,Or estimate his power,But every star that wheels above,And each enamelled flowerThat sends persuasive influenceTo touch the human mind,Appeals to some strange, inner senseThat Love can never find.

Love always needs his ally, Youth,Or lost is all his charm;A sunset is a golden truthNor age nor ill can harm.

And loveliness will lend the earthIts radiance and sheenIf but one rosebud come to birth,One single leaf grow green.

Ah, waving trees of Wharncliffe House,That tremble to and fro,Old dreams and fancies you arouse,Old fires you set aglow.Your shaded greenness soothes the eye,Worn out with dusty hours,But still I crave that Eastern sky,Those brilliant Orient flowers!