Return To Wendy's
Page
Woodman, Spare That
Tree

WOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.

'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it
stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and
sea,
And wouldst thou hew it
down?

Woodman, forbear thy
stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
O, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played.

My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand
--
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!

My heart-strings round thee
cling,
Close as thy bark, old
friend!
Here shall the wild-bird
sing,
And still thy branches bend.

Old tree! the storm still
brave!
And, woodman, leave the
spot;
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall hurt it not.

George Pope Morris
Actual picture accompanying this poem in the
Swinton's Fourth Reader 1883
Owl  from the Swinton's Fourth  Reader 1883