When I was yet but a child, the gardener gave me a tree,
A little slim elm, to be set wherever seemed good to me.
What a wonderful thing it seemed! with its lace-edged leaves uncurled,
And its span-long stem, that should grow to the grandest tree in the world!
So I searched all the garden round, and out over field and hill,
But not a spot could I find that suited my wayward will.
I would have it bowered in the grove, in a close and quiet vale;
I would rear it aloft on the height, to wrestle with the gale.
Then I said, "I will cover its roots with a little earth by the door,
And there it shall live and wait, while I search for a place once more."
But still I could never find it, the place for my wondrous tree,
And it waited and grew by the door, while years passed over me;
Till suddenly, one fine day, I saw it was grown too tall,
And its roots gone down too deep, to be ever moved at all.
So here it is growing still, by the lowly cottage door;
Never so grand and tall as I dreamed it would be of yore,
But it shelters a tired old man in its sunshine-dappled shade,
The children's pattering feet round its knotty knees have played,
Dear singing birds in a storm sometimes take refuge there,
And the stars through its silent boughs shine gloriously fair.
~~ Edward Rowland Sill (1841-1887) from Poetical Works, 1887
Infant Spirit of the Spring!
On thy fresh-plumed pinion, bring
Snow-drops like thy stainless brow —
Violet, primrose — cull them now,
With the cup of daffodil,
Which the fairies love to fill,
Ere each moon dance they renew,
With the fragrant honey dew;
Bring them, Spirit! — bring them hither
Ere the wind have time to wither;
Or the sun to steal their dyes,
To paint, at eve, the western skies,
Bring them for the wreath of one —
Fairest, best, that Time hath known.
Infant Spirit! dreams have told
Of thy golden hours of old,
When the amaranth was flung
O'er creation bright and young;
When the wind had sweeter sound
Than holiest lute-string since hath found;
When the sigh of angels sent
Fragrance through the firmament:
Then thy glorious gifts were shed
O'er full many a virgin head:
Of those forms of beauty, none
Gladden now this earth, save one!
Hither, then, thy blossoms bring,
Infant Spirit of the Spring!
This poem has sometimes been attributed to John Ruskin (1819-1900). However, E.T. Cook and Alexander Wedderburn write in the introduction to volume II (Poems) of The Works of John Ruskin (London: George Allen, 1903, xxxvii): 'Owing to the fact that Ruskin's early contributions to periodical literature were not signed with his name, but only with his initials, pieces written by other persons are sometimes attributed to him. In an American edition of his poems a piece entitled "Spring," and beginning "Infant spirit of the Spring," is included. It appeared in Friendship's Offering for 1837, pp. 383-384, where it is signed "R". Ruskin, however, stated that he certainly did not write it.' https://archive.org/details/worksofjohnruski02rusk/page/n45
