ADVICE TO A FOREST
O trees, to whom the darkness is a childScampering in and out of your long, green beards;O trees, to whom sunlight is a tattered pilgrimCounting his dreams within your hermitageAnd slipping down the road, in twilight robes;O trees, whose leaves make an incense of soundReeling with the beat of your caught feet,Do not mingle your tips in startled hatred,When little men come to fell you.These men will saw you into stripsOf pointed brooding, blind with paint,But underneath you men will chaseThe grey staccato of their livesDown a glaring maze of wallsMuch harder than your own.And when, at last, the deep brown gazeOf stolidly amorous time steals over you,The little men who bit into your heartsWill stray off in a patter of rabbits’ feet.Look down upon these children thenWith the aloof and weary toleranceThat all still things possess,O trees, to whom the darkness was a childScampering in and out of your long, green beards.
O trees, to whom the darkness is a childScampering in and out of your long, green beards;O trees, to whom sunlight is a tattered pilgrimCounting his dreams within your hermitageAnd slipping down the road, in twilight robes;O trees, whose leaves make an incense of soundReeling with the beat of your caught feet,Do not mingle your tips in startled hatred,When little men come to fell you.These men will saw you into stripsOf pointed brooding, blind with paint,But underneath you men will chaseThe grey staccato of their livesDown a glaring maze of wallsMuch harder than your own.And when, at last, the deep brown gazeOf stolidly amorous time steals over you,The little men who bit into your heartsWill stray off in a patter of rabbits’ feet.Look down upon these children thenWith the aloof and weary toleranceThat all still things possess,O trees, to whom the darkness was a childScampering in and out of your long, green beards.
O trees, to whom the darkness is a child
Scampering in and out of your long, green beards;
O trees, to whom sunlight is a tattered pilgrim
Counting his dreams within your hermitage
And slipping down the road, in twilight robes;
O trees, whose leaves make an incense of sound
Reeling with the beat of your caught feet,
Do not mingle your tips in startled hatred,
When little men come to fell you.
These men will saw you into strips
Of pointed brooding, blind with paint,
But underneath you men will chase
The grey staccato of their lives
Down a glaring maze of walls
Much harder than your own.
And when, at last, the deep brown gaze
Of stolidly amorous time steals over you,
The little men who bit into your hearts
Will stray off in a patter of rabbits’ feet.
Look down upon these children then
With the aloof and weary tolerance
That all still things possess,
O trees, to whom the darkness was a child
Scampering in and out of your long, green beards.