Lament Of The Maple Tree. A Vision.

"We had a dream which was not all a dream." - Byron.


        I laid me down one day in June,
        It was late long afternoon,
        A very sultry summer's eve,
        Such times the senses oft deceive,
        The place was 'neath a maple tree,
        Soon from all cares and troubles free,
        By a gentle, kindly slumber,
        No more our sorrows we could number,
        But we heard a plaintive wail
        Such as we find in fairy tale,
        It was the genius of the tree
        Who in sad guise appeared to me,
        And then she sadly did give vent
        Unto this awful grave lament:
        Though I am gay in month of June,
        All decked in green, yet very soon,
        Alas my beauty will be faded
        And my charms be all degraded,
        For is my time of glory brief,
        So often flattered is my leaf.
        In Canada so broad and free
        All poets sing of the maple tree,
        High I stand in their opinion,
        Emblem of the New Dominion,
        The reason I do them upbraid
        Some never slept beneath my shade,
        And yet they take the liberty
        To chant about the maple tree,
        They dare to poetise my leaf,
        This is the source of all my grief,
        I think their praises all so rude
        And as but base ingratitude,
        So often hackneyed is my name
        That every fall I burn with shame,
        Like maiden's cheek which blushes red
        When vain rash youth asks her to wed,
        Then do these foolish ones descry
        In me fresh beauty and they sigh,
        And then renew their songs of praise.
        But unto me how sad their lays,
        For then I know my days are brief,
        'Tis hectic flush upon my leaf;
        True poets then should mournful sing
        When the destroyer's on the wing,
        For then I know my leaves of gold
        Will all soon mingle with the mould,
        No one does ever think to praise
        The fell destroyer when he slays,
        None rejoice in the flushed cheek
        When the poor girl is low and weak,
        Perhaps they'll say and it is true
        In spring my glories I'll renew,
        But 'tis poor comfort after all
        To lose my offspring every fall,
        Small consolation to mother
        To tell her that soon another
        Will replace her fond darling boy
        Who has been source of all her joy,
        But you know all about my wood
        You know that it is strong and good,
        And I have full many a curl
        And pleasing eye and charming nurl,
        Some love me as fond nature grained
        And some prefer my beauty stained,
        But my dear friend I hope that you
        My varied shades love pure and true,
        For of the woods you know the staple
        Stoutest and best is good maple,
        The youth my sugar eat with glee,
        And old maids love me in their tea,
        In me do various uses meet
        In summer shade, in winter heat,
        For I do make a glorious blaze
        All worthy of the poet's lays,
        But to their praises I'll be deaf
        If more they harp about my leaf.
        They call me gay when I am sober
        To me 'tis gloomy month October,
        But saints on earth when they die
        Hope for true bliss beyond the sky,
        So winter does bring no alarms
        Though it strip bare my trunk and arms,
        For now I know that time will bring
        More glorious foliage in the spring,
        Then all nature will rejoice
        Triumphing with glorious voice,
        And birds will in my branches sing
        Hosannas to the lovely spring.

The nurls and birds' eyes and curls were highly prized in furniture thirty years ago, when we used the smooth plain.