The Tree

IN the dim woods, one tree
Was by the cunning seasons builded fair
With the rain's masonry
And delicate craft of air.

Unknown of anyone,
She was the wind's green daughter. Her the dove
Made, between leaf and sun,
His murmuring house of love.

Quiet as a seemly thought
Her infinite strength of shade she stretched around.
Peace like a spell she wrought
On that encloséd ground.

Bred of such lowly stuff,–
Blown mast, a sheltering day, a tender night,–
Now stars seem kin enough
To company her height.

She knows not whence she grew.
So in my heart, from some forgotten seed,
The lovely thought of you
Towered to the lovelier need.