Classic Poem

A CROSS the shining waters of the bay,
A giant half-moon, fettered to the shore,
Like some unruly beast, by either horn,
The log-boom floats, with every shifting wind
Straining now this way and now that, and still,
With sullen grumblings striving to be free.

O Sylvan deities! ye gods of wood and hill!
Look on this scene, and wring your hands and weep.
How are the mighty fallen! Here they lie,
The monarchs of the forest — lordly pines,
And shadowy firs, and twisted cedars — here,
Stripped of their branches, riven of their bark,
Naked, and all unlovely in their chains.

Not theirs to ripen into hoary age,
To listen for the coming of the wind,
And welcome him with strings symphonious,
Until they fell, worn out, with hollow boom —
The grand finale to their harmony;
Not theirs to lie at peace in forest mould,
Till tender mosses compassed them around,
And made their crumbling ruins beautiful;
Not theirs to shelter in their hollow trunks
The feeble woodland creatures; and not theirs
To sink at last into their mother earth,
And through their children rise to life again.

These fell in all the glory of their prime,
Crashed down with angry rush of rending limbs,
And bled at every gash and cruel wound.
Man, the despoiler, stripped them for his use,
Harried them through snow and ice and freshet,
Bound them here to wait his pleasure. Soon,
Riven by whirring saws, some here, some there,
Will go, to be a part of hut or hall,
Palace or kennel — merchandise of trade!

Thus mourned the poet in a bitter mood,
Thinking of those sweet dryads whom he loved,
Cast out by careless hands from house and home,
And of the mighty wrong the forest bore.
When lo! the setting sun smiled on the boom,
And over-decked those naked gleaming hulks
With princely robe of purple, gold, and white;
And then he saw — seeing them thus crowned —
That all was well: for what is it to die,
Be it a man, or tree, or any other thing,
So that in death is service, and the world
Be thrust one hair's-breadth nearer to the dawn.