StillNESS

Still are the Maine pine woods
When the winds are gone,
Stiller than lakes in them
From all feet withdrawn,
Save from feet of the wild things
That hunt or swim or fly,
And awaken trails of ripples —
That soon as stilly die.

Still are cone and needle,
Fallen upon the moss,
Stiller than time amid them,
Pausing at a loss.
Still are the dead branches,
That have forgotten life,
Still as the last stillness
After earth's last strife.