My painted tree, and other poems . Tis the quiet hour? The day is rest my oars in the settings sun. And as I drift on the mirrored lakeThe colored beams, now well with a fairy brush for meA mirrored picture of a tree. \ The scraggy limbs gainst the yellow skyWeb the golden dome on high; While well below, by no breezes blownIs the painted tree in another dome; And with the life of a graceful snakeIt twists and squirms in the golden lake. Theres gold above and gold below;Theres a shimmer in one while the others aglow;Theres a tree that stands in the dome oerhead,Whose branch

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My painted tree, and other poems . Tis the quiet hour? The day is rest my oars in the settings sun. And as I drift on the mirrored lakeThe colored beams, now well with a fairy brush for meA mirrored picture of a tree. \ The scraggy limbs gainst the yellow skyWeb the golden dome on high; While well below, by no breezes blownIs the painted tree in another dome; And with the life of a graceful snakeIt twists and squirms in the golden lake. Theres gold above and gold below;Theres a shimmer in one while the others aglow;Theres a tree that stands in the dome oerhead,Whose branches crackle; the tree is dead; Yet the golden brush with its movement slow,Instills with life the tree below* In the golden sea my oars I ply,And I splash the gold, and the gold drops fly;Then I take one farewell look my painted tree I cannot find; The waves from my boat must have washed ashoreMy painted tree,—for it is no

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Keywords: ., bookcentury1900, bookdecade1900, bookpublisherchica, bookyear1904