Classic Poem

Between thin fingers of the pine
The fluid gold of sunlight slips,
And through the tamarack's grey-green fringe
Upon the level birch leaves drips.

Through all the still moist forest air
Slow trickles down the soft warm sheen,
And flecks the branching wood of ferns
With tender tints of pallid green,

To rest where close to moldered trunks
The red and purple berries lie,
Where tiny jungles of the moss
Their tropic forest rear on high.

Fast, fast asleep the woodland rests,
Stirs not the tamarack's topmost sheaf,
And slow the subtle sunlight glides
With noiseless step from leaf to leaf.