To the Pines.

Ye sad musicians of the wood,
Whose dirges fill the solitude,
Whose minor strains and melodies
Are wafted on the whispering breeze,
Whose plaintive chants and listless sighs,
Ascend as incense to the skies;
Do solemn tones afford relief,
With you, as men, a vent for grief?

Alfred Castner King

Alfred Castner King was an American poet. He is recognized for his significant contributions to American poetry. Despite battling with blindness, his disability did not deter him from crafting poetry that captivated many readers. King often wrote about nature and personal experiences, reflecting a deep appreciation for the world around him and the nuances of human emotion.

Alfred Castner King

The Spirit of freedom is Born of the Mountains.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

To Mother Huberta.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

There is an Air of Majesty.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.

Alfred Castner King, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Fallen Tree.

I passed along a mountain road,
    Which led me through a wooded glen,
Remote from dwelling or abode
    And ordinary haunts of men;
        And wearied from the dust and heat.
        Beneath a tree, I found a seat.

The tree, a tall majestic spruce,
    Which had, perhaps for centuries,
Withstood, without a moment's truce,
    The wing-ed warfare of the breeze;
        A monarch of the solitude,
        Which well might grace the noblest wood.

Beneath its cool and welcome shade,
    Protected from the noontide rays,
The birds amid its branches played
    And caroled forth their twittering praise;
        A squirrel perched upon a limb
        And chattered with loquacious vim.

E'er yet that selfsame week had sped,
    On my r...

Alfred Castner King

The Wind In The Pines

When winds go organing through the pines
On hill and headland, darkly gleaming,
Meseems I hear sonorous lines
Of Iliads that the woods are dreaming.

Madison Julius Cawein

Dying Hymn.

    The hour-glass speeds its final sands,
        In splendor sinks the golden sun,
    So men must yield to death's demands
        When human life its course has run.

    We view the ruins of the past,
        We stand surrounded by decay,
    Our transient hours are speeding fast
        And, e'er we think, have passed away.

    Weep not, nor mourn with idle tear
That hour, inevitable and sure;
    We move, our sojourn finished here,
        To nobler realms which shall endure.

Alfred Castner King

Woods In Winter.

When winter winds are piercing chill,
    And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
    That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
    Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
    And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
    The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
    The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
    Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
    And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
    When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
   ...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The Pines

We sleep in the sleep of ages, the bleak, barbarian pines;
The grey moss drapes us like sages, and closer we lock our lines,
And deeper we clutch through the gelid gloom where never a sunbeam shines.

On the flanks of the storm-gored ridges are our black battalions massed;
We surge in a host to the sullen coast, and we sing in the ocean blast;
From empire of sea to empire of snow we grip our empire fast.

To the niggard lands were we driven; 'twixt desert and foe are we penned.
To us was the Northland given, ours to stronghold and defend;
Ours till the world be riven in the crash of the utter end.

Ours from the bleak beginning, through the æons of death-like sleep;
Ours from the shock when the naked rock was hurled from the hissing deep;
Ours through the twilight ages ...

Robert William Service

In the Depths of a Forest

In the depths of a Forest secluded and wild,
The night voices whisper in passionate numbers;
And Im leaning again, as I did when a child,
Oer the grave where my father so quietly slumbers.

The years have rolled by with a thundering sound
But I knew, O ye woodlands, affection would know it,
And the spot which I stand on is sanctified ground
By the love that I bear to him sleeping below it.

Oh! well may the winds with a saddening moan
Go fitfully over the branches so dreary;
And well may I kneel by the time-shattered stone,
And rejoice that a rest has been found for the weary.

Henry Kendall