A Live-Oak Leaf

    How marvellous this bit of green
    I hold, and soon shall throw away!
    Its subtile veins, its vivid sheen,
    Seem fragment of a god's array.

    In all the hidden toil of earth,
    Which is the more laborious part -
    To rear the oak's enormous girth,
    Or shape its leaves with poignant art?

Clark Ashton Smith

Clark Ashton Smith was an American writer and poet, best known for his contributions to the genres of horror, fantasy, and science fiction. He was a member of the Lovecraft Circle, a group of writers around H.P. Lovecraft. Smith's work was characterized by rich, fantastical imagery and vocabulary. He is considered one of the major writers of weird fiction and a key figure in early American speculative fiction.

Clark Ashton Smith

The Song Of The Stars

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

The Unrevealed

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

The Medusa Of The Skies

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

The Fugitives

Clark Ashton Smith, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

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Oak-Leaves

    Crinkled oak-leaves, twinkling in the sun,
        Splashed by midday showers, dripping cold -
    Serrate oak-leaves, silvered by the sun
        That has brushed yon dull brown grass with gold.

    Green and crinkled oak leaves, tremble now -
        Strong you would be, strong would be and bold,
    Ah! green oak-leaves, you are trembling now -
        By the saucy wind deceived - cajoled!

    Trembling oak leaves - you are soon to fall,
        Soon to hide the earth with yellowing mould
    Twinkling, crinkling oak-leaves, soon you'll fall
        For the autumn sun is shining cold.

Helen Leah Reed

The Oak

Live thy Life,
Young and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;

Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed
Soberer-hued
Gold again.

All his leaves
Fall'n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough
Naked strength.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Old Oak.

Friend of my early days, we meet once more!
Once more I stand thine aged boughs beneath,
And hear again the rustling music pour,
Along thy leaves, as whispering spirits breathe.

Full many a day of sunshine and of storm,
Since last we parted, both have surely known;
Thy leaves are thinned, decrepit is thy form,
And all my cherished visions, they are flown!

How beautiful, how brief, those sunny hours
Departed now, when life was in its spring
When Fancy knew no scene undecked with flowers,
And Expectation flew on Fancy's wing!

Here, on the bank, beside this whispering stream,
Which still runs by as gayly as of yore,
Marking its eddies, I was wont to dream
Of things away, on some far fairy shore.

Then every whirling leaf and bubbling ball,<...

Samuel Griswold Goodrich

A Seed

See how a Seed, which Autumn flung down,
And through the Winter neglected lay,
Uncoils two little green leaves and two brown,
With tiny root taking hold on the clay
As, lifting and strengthening day by day,
It pushes red branchless, sprouts new leaves,
And cell after cell the Power in it weaves
Out of the storehouse of soil and clime,
To fashion a Tree in due course of time;
Tree with rough bark and boughs' expansion,
Where the Crow can build his mansion,
Or a Man, in some new May,
Lie under whispering leaves and say,
"Are the ills of one's life so very bad
When a Green Tree makes me deliciously glad?"
As I do now. But where shall I be
When this little Seed is a tall green Tree?

William Allingham

Autumn.

The grass is wet with heavy dew,
The leaves have changed their bright green hue,
To brighter red, or golden;
The morning sun shines with a glow,
As bright and pure as long ago,
In time ye left the olden.

One tree is cloth'd with scarlet dress,
And one, with brown leaf'd loveliness,
Delights the eye that gazes;
While others varied tints display,
But all, in beauteous array,
Delight us, and amaze us.

We see the trees in beauty clad,
But still that beauty makes us sad,
E'en while we may admire,
For death has caus'd that sudden bloom
Stern death, the tenant of the tomb,
Or funereal pyre.

The ruthless, bitter, biting air
Hath dried the life which flourish'd there,
Throughout the warmer seasons;
The nourishment hath ceas'd ...

Thomas Frederick Young

Acacia Tree

    All the trees and bushes of the garden
    Display their bright new green.

    But above them all, still bare,
    The great old acacia stands,
    His solitary bent black branches stark
    Against the garden and the sky.

    It is as though those other thoughtless shrubs,
    The winter over, hastened to rejoice
    And clothe themselves in spring's new finery,
    Heedless of all the iron time behind them.

    But he, older and wiser, stronger and sadder of heart,
    Remembers still the cruel winter, and knows
    That in some months that death will come again;
    And, for a season, lonelily meditates
    Above his lighter companions' frivolity.

    Till some late sunny day when, breaking thought,
    He'll suddenly yield to th...

John Collings Squire, Sir