14 JUNE 1879, Page 16

POETRY.

A DEAD TREE.

THE field with buttercups is Cloth of Gold, Beneath the burning blue;

The tender tree-tops their last leaves unfold, And find their dreams are true.

Yes, it is summer in the land, and all The flowers and birds rejoice,— Ah, that my heart could hearken to the call,— Put forth a leaf or voice !

Still, like a bare, dead tree, my thought, that grew, Stands changeless and the same; No more can quickening fancies clothe anew, As with fresh leaves, the frame.

"Love lost, hope vanished,—what is thy distress ?" Nay, ask not,—God alone

Knows, and the heart knows its own bitterness,—

And each must bear its own. R. I. 0.