The Little Pines
DEAR, once in a clearing, high in the snowy wood,
The bearded lumbermen, filing with axe and cart,
Wherever the saplings shot up straight and good,
Hacked at the boles and crashed them down and apart;
And long, O lover of little pines, you stood
Mute on the hillock, watching, and sick at heart.
The bearded lumbermen, filing with axe and cart,
Wherever the saplings shot up straight and good,
Hacked at the boles and crashed them down and apart;
And long, O lover of little pines, you stood
Mute on the hillock, watching, and sick at heart.
And when on pitiful hurdles, death’s poor dower.
The innocent felons lay under cords unblest,
And oxen, welding in one their deep-breathed power,
Upheaved the burden grandly, with no arrest, —
For the ended beauty of little pines that hour
Tears in your eyes, and anger in your sweet breast.
The innocent felons lay under cords unblest,
And oxen, welding in one their deep-breathed power,
Upheaved the burden grandly, with no arrest, —
For the ended beauty of little pines that hour
Tears in your eyes, and anger in your sweet breast.
But now a wondrous sight in the Bay below,
A grove of masts, all winged aërially!
’Twixt wave and cloud so thrillingly fair they go,
So busy, so spirit-bright, who would not be
Glad for your little pines? That overthrow
Is life, is laughter, along the illumined sea.
A grove of masts, all winged aërially!
’Twixt wave and cloud so thrillingly fair they go,
So busy, so spirit-bright, who would not be
Glad for your little pines? That overthrow
Is life, is laughter, along the illumined sea.