THE DOUGLAS FIR
Bycrowding upward toward the lightDay and night,We lift (the lifting never stops)Our panoply of towering tops.We are all height and gloom;We have no room,No placeFor our own brothers in the raceFor light; if they can not keep paceWith us, nor reach as high,They die!Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain,Thus we maintainOur creed, which is to riseIn unspoiled beauty toward the skies—We make no compromise!Across the fire-swept areas our seedsAre blown, to drop among the weeds.A little while they lieAnd germinate, and by and byWE spring—a sapling here—and there—And everywhere,Elbowing inThrough chinkapinAnd rhododendrons and the crushOf maple brush;Before we know,We’ve grown into a forest, while belowWe glimpse the copseAnd see the topsOf thingsThat have become our underlings.There are no thicker standsThan ours, in all the Northwest lands—By grace of rivalry we grow so straight,And thrive and dominate.
Bycrowding upward toward the lightDay and night,We lift (the lifting never stops)Our panoply of towering tops.We are all height and gloom;We have no room,No placeFor our own brothers in the raceFor light; if they can not keep paceWith us, nor reach as high,They die!Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain,Thus we maintainOur creed, which is to riseIn unspoiled beauty toward the skies—We make no compromise!Across the fire-swept areas our seedsAre blown, to drop among the weeds.A little while they lieAnd germinate, and by and byWE spring—a sapling here—and there—And everywhere,Elbowing inThrough chinkapinAnd rhododendrons and the crushOf maple brush;Before we know,We’ve grown into a forest, while belowWe glimpse the copseAnd see the topsOf thingsThat have become our underlings.There are no thicker standsThan ours, in all the Northwest lands—By grace of rivalry we grow so straight,And thrive and dominate.
Bycrowding upward toward the lightDay and night,We lift (the lifting never stops)Our panoply of towering tops.We are all height and gloom;We have no room,No placeFor our own brothers in the raceFor light; if they can not keep paceWith us, nor reach as high,They die!
Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain,Thus we maintainOur creed, which is to riseIn unspoiled beauty toward the skies—We make no compromise!Across the fire-swept areas our seedsAre blown, to drop among the weeds.A little while they lieAnd germinate, and by and byWE spring—a sapling here—and there—And everywhere,Elbowing inThrough chinkapinAnd rhododendrons and the crushOf maple brush;Before we know,We’ve grown into a forest, while belowWe glimpse the copseAnd see the topsOf thingsThat have become our underlings.
There are no thicker standsThan ours, in all the Northwest lands—By grace of rivalry we grow so straight,And thrive and dominate.
Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain,Thus we maintainOur creed, which is to riseIn unspoiled beauty toward the skies.
Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain,Thus we maintainOur creed, which is to riseIn unspoiled beauty toward the skies.
Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain,Thus we maintainOur creed, which is to riseIn unspoiled beauty toward the skies.
Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain,Thus we maintainOur creed, which is to riseIn unspoiled beauty toward the skies.