From my Arm-Chair

Am I a king, that I should call my own
&nbsp This splendid ebon throne?
Or by what reason, or what right divine,
&nbsp Can I proclaim it mine?

Only, perhaps, by right divine of song
&nbsp It may to me belong;
Only because the spreading chestnut tree
&nbsp Of old was sung by me.

Well I remember it in all its prime,
&nbsp When in the summer-time
The affluent foliage of its branches made
&nbsp A cavern of cool shade.

There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street,
&nbsp Its blossoms white and sweet
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,
&nbsp And murmured like a hive.

And when the winds of autumn, with a shout,
&nbsp Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,
&nbsp Dropped to the ground beneath.

And now some fragments of its branches bare,
&nbsp Shaped as a stately chair,
Have by my hearthstone found a home at last,
&nbsp And whisper of the past.

The Danish king could not in all his pride
&nbsp Repel the ocean tide,
But, seated in this chair, I can in rhyme
&nbsp Roll back the tide of Time.

I see again, as one in vision sees,
&nbsp The blossoms and the bees,
And hear the children's voices shout and call,
&nbsp And the brown chestnuts fall.

I see the smithy with its fires aglow,
&nbsp I hear the bellows blow,
And the shrill hammers on the anvil beat
&nbsp The iron white with heat!

And thus, dear children, have ye made for me
&nbsp This day a jubilee,
And to my more than three-score years and ten
&nbsp Brought back my youth again.

The heart hath its own memory, like the mind,
&nbsp And in it are enshrined
The precious keepsakes, into which is wrought
&nbsp The giver's loving thought.

Only your love and your remembrance could
&nbsp Give life to this dead wood,
And make these branches, leafless now so long,
&nbsp Blossom again in song.