Among the Trees Again

In Short

This collection of poetry captures the transition of seasons and the enduring patterns of memory. Through vivid descriptions of flora, fauna, and the expansive American landscape—from the Kankakee River to the California coast—the verses explore how the rhythms of nature mirror the internal landscape of the human heart. The work has lasted because of its unpretentious, sensory-rich language; it offers a gentle meditation on loss, the comfort of friendship, and the persistent hope that arrives with the return of spring.

The Story

The collection moves with the calendar, beginning in the waking warmth of early spring and cycling through the full bloom of summer, the deepening colors of autumn, and the starker, contemplative moods of winter. The narrator stands as a quiet witness to the world, leaning on bridge rails to watch the April floods or kneeling by a "wishing-spring" in a moment of hesitation. There is a constant, restless travel throughout the poems: the narrator visits the mission gardens of San Gabriel, observes the granite profile of Montezuma in the desert, and dreams of the far-reaching "north" where the icebergs float.

These travels are not merely geographical; they are searches for solace. The narrator speaks to trees as if they were friends, asking them to teach their "lore" of patience. A deep, persistent melancholy—often tied to the absence of a beloved brother—runs through the pages like an underground stream. The poems acknowledge this sorrow directly, as when the narrator hears the ballad "Allen Percy" and feels the old, familiar weight of grief. Yet, the arc of the collection is one of recovery. By the time the narrator reaches the sea-gardens of Santa Catalina, the focus shifts toward a dreamlike acceptance. The final movements of the book look back with tenderness: a memory of childhood, a reflection on a "perfect friendship" that acts as an anchor, and the realization that while the years inevitably pull us toward the winter, the "gold and crimson fruitage" of what we have harvested remains. The journey ends not in despair, but in a quiet, grounded appreciation for the "primal peace" found in the natural world.

How It Unfolds

The awakening of spring The collection opens with the narrator observing the first signs of green, using these small, fragile details to signal a thawing of the spirit. The birds are primary companions, their songs serving as the language through which the narrator begins to express a sense of renewal.

The call of distant places Moving away from the home fields, the narrator reflects on the lure of the unknown, including the icy northern poles and the sun-drenched, arid desert. These poems emphasize the vastness of the world, contrasting human smallness against the indifference of mountains and sea.

The struggle with memory A significant portion of the middle section deals with the "long ago," specifically the pain of separation from a brother. The narrator oscillates between joy in the present moment and a sudden, sharp ache when a familiar scent or sound triggers a wave of nostalgia.

The peace of the present As the seasons cycle toward autumn and winter, the tone becomes more settled and reflective. The narrator finds beauty in the "frost-tipped" leaves and the "spicy fragrance" of the garden, suggesting that maturity brings a capacity to hold both grief and beauty simultaneously.

The People

The narrator is the primary consciousness of the book—a sensitive, observant figure who is deeply attuned to the "leafy lullaby" of the trees. They are a person who deeply values connection, often feeling a "hopeless yearning" to bridge the distance between themselves and the past. This longing is directed toward a "beloved brother," whose presence, though absent, is the emotional anchor of the work. The brother is a ghost in the landscape, invoked through "dream echoes" and the tender memory of holding his hand in childhood.

The "little master"—the red-breasted bird—stands as a mentor of sorts, a creature that sings with a "happy secret" the narrator longs to learn. The "fisher folk" and the "little sister" of the later poems appear as archetypes of innocence and simple, contented living; they represent the state of grace the narrator seeks to reach. Everyone in these poems, from the "wan survivor" of a shipwreck to the silent, stone-faced Montezuma, serves as a mirror for the narrator’s own internal state, whether they are experiencing great distress or the "serene and high" repose of a soul at rest.

In Its Own Voice

The narrator expresses a desire to understand the simple lessons of the trees, hoping to find a companion in the natural world:

O generous-natured, friendly, neighbor tree! Weave gentle blessings in the shade and shine; And granting gracious patience to my plea, Some simple lesson of your lore make mine.

Reflecting on the way a song can evoke a deep, almost painful sense of connection, the narrator describes the power of a melody:

A plaintive song, so strangely sweet and old, That all my soul within itself would fold And gently keep so quaint a melody.

What It's Really About

At its heart, this is an exploration of the "chrysalis of grief"—the idea that sorrow is not a permanent state but a transformation. The poems wrestle with the question of how to exist in a vast, sometimes terrifying universe while remaining tethered to the small, beautiful things of earth. It asks if it is possible to maintain a "perfect friendship" or love that transcends time and space. The argument is that by paying close, reverent attention to the changing seasons, one might find a way to make peace with the "ancient mystery of the skies." It is a work about the necessity of beauty as a balm for the human soul.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the pastoral tradition and the gentle, observational style of nineteenth-century nature poetry will find much to admire here. The language is elegant and precise, favoring the "tinkling cadences" of a brook or the "fitful fanning" of a windmill over complex abstraction. It feels like a walk through a well-tended garden, providing a slow-paced respite from the noise of modern life.

However, the reader should be prepared for the period’s earnest, sometimes melancholy tone. The narrator’s grief is unabashed and occasionally heavy, reflecting a sentimentality common to the era. The vocabulary is rich and occasionally ornate—words like "fretwork," "aigrettes," and "diaphanous" appear frequently—which may require a slower, more deliberate reading pace to fully absorb. If you are looking for a book that is loud or dramatic, this is not it. But if you value a quiet voice that speaks directly to the experience of being human—of being both small in the face of the universe and deeply capable of love—you will find the collection to be a lasting companion. It is a book that stays with you, much like the memory of a summer afternoon spent watching the light shift through the trees.