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The Tree of Heaven Young foreign-born Ailanthus, Because he grew so fast, We scorned his easy daring And doubted it would last. But lo, when autumn gathers And all the woods are old, He stands in green and salmon, A glory to behold! Among the ancient monarchs His airy tent is spread. His robe of coronation Is tasseled rosy red. With something strange and Eastern, His height and grace proclaim His lineage and title Is that celestial name. This is the Tree of Heaven, Which seems to say to us, "Behold how rife is beauty, And how victorious!" Bliss Carman's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1194 |
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