THE FOREST
Weare the hosts innumerable who rideUpon the hills—who strideThe plains and surge upon the mountainside.We are the onward-sweeping tideOf ceaseless growth, the countless entitiesOf all the rolling, emerald seasOf timber-land—we are the Trees!The dam who suckles us is Earth,She gives us birthAnd whenOur night is come, she claims her own again.We live to grow and to this endRecurring seasons lendTheir favor; Winter comes, our labors cease,It is a time of cold, white peace;When Spring walks jubilantly through the landWe know the hour of increase is at hand;Then stirs our forest-heart and sap runs free—The sap which is the life-blood of a tree.Our skin is bark, and fiber is our fleshAnd through the pores of every freshGreen leaf, we breathe. Our good?Is to make wood;To hold in check the floods that devastate;To mediateBetween the Heavens and the Earth,That there shall be no dearthOf water nor excess—yet still enoughStored in our forest floor of matted duffTo save the land from barrenness,And when we tender lessThan this, or stopFrom making wood, we’re dead! In time, we drop,And when we drop, we rot.Such is our lot; our lives are fraughtWith much vicissitude, not always freeTo shape our destiny—A tale where each slow-born eventIs moulded by environment.And there is stuffEnough of drama if the rough,Rude story were all told—a stageWhere age-Old patriarchs make wayFor jostling, upstart youth and gay,Bepainted courtezans and those who weepWith trailing tears; and anchorites who keepTheir solitary trysts; and those who sing;And gossips bent in whispering;Defiant wretches of the sod,Hurling invective at their God;Or those whose arms in priestly-wiseTurn supplicating to the skies,Or stoop to blessWith benediction and caress;And gnarled hagsAnd misshaped monsters of the crags;And moon-white hostsOf beckoning ghosts.With wild, spendthrift magnificenceThe stage is set—immenseAnd primal. FlashAnd flood and thunder-crash,Devouring flame and scattered deadAnd silences that hang like lead.StuffEnough for drama if the roughRude story were all told;A tale as oldAs dusk, as new as dawn—The play is always going on—The curtain’s never drawn.
Weare the hosts innumerable who rideUpon the hills—who strideThe plains and surge upon the mountainside.We are the onward-sweeping tideOf ceaseless growth, the countless entitiesOf all the rolling, emerald seasOf timber-land—we are the Trees!The dam who suckles us is Earth,She gives us birthAnd whenOur night is come, she claims her own again.We live to grow and to this endRecurring seasons lendTheir favor; Winter comes, our labors cease,It is a time of cold, white peace;When Spring walks jubilantly through the landWe know the hour of increase is at hand;Then stirs our forest-heart and sap runs free—The sap which is the life-blood of a tree.Our skin is bark, and fiber is our fleshAnd through the pores of every freshGreen leaf, we breathe. Our good?Is to make wood;To hold in check the floods that devastate;To mediateBetween the Heavens and the Earth,That there shall be no dearthOf water nor excess—yet still enoughStored in our forest floor of matted duffTo save the land from barrenness,And when we tender lessThan this, or stopFrom making wood, we’re dead! In time, we drop,And when we drop, we rot.Such is our lot; our lives are fraughtWith much vicissitude, not always freeTo shape our destiny—A tale where each slow-born eventIs moulded by environment.And there is stuffEnough of drama if the rough,Rude story were all told—a stageWhere age-Old patriarchs make wayFor jostling, upstart youth and gay,Bepainted courtezans and those who weepWith trailing tears; and anchorites who keepTheir solitary trysts; and those who sing;And gossips bent in whispering;Defiant wretches of the sod,Hurling invective at their God;Or those whose arms in priestly-wiseTurn supplicating to the skies,Or stoop to blessWith benediction and caress;And gnarled hagsAnd misshaped monsters of the crags;And moon-white hostsOf beckoning ghosts.With wild, spendthrift magnificenceThe stage is set—immenseAnd primal. FlashAnd flood and thunder-crash,Devouring flame and scattered deadAnd silences that hang like lead.StuffEnough for drama if the roughRude story were all told;A tale as oldAs dusk, as new as dawn—The play is always going on—The curtain’s never drawn.
Weare the hosts innumerable who rideUpon the hills—who strideThe plains and surge upon the mountainside.We are the onward-sweeping tideOf ceaseless growth, the countless entitiesOf all the rolling, emerald seasOf timber-land—we are the Trees!
The dam who suckles us is Earth,She gives us birthAnd whenOur night is come, she claims her own again.We live to grow and to this endRecurring seasons lendTheir favor; Winter comes, our labors cease,It is a time of cold, white peace;When Spring walks jubilantly through the landWe know the hour of increase is at hand;Then stirs our forest-heart and sap runs free—The sap which is the life-blood of a tree.Our skin is bark, and fiber is our fleshAnd through the pores of every freshGreen leaf, we breathe. Our good?Is to make wood;To hold in check the floods that devastate;To mediateBetween the Heavens and the Earth,That there shall be no dearthOf water nor excess—yet still enoughStored in our forest floor of matted duffTo save the land from barrenness,And when we tender lessThan this, or stopFrom making wood, we’re dead! In time, we drop,And when we drop, we rot.Such is our lot; our lives are fraughtWith much vicissitude, not always freeTo shape our destiny—A tale where each slow-born eventIs moulded by environment.
And there is stuffEnough of drama if the rough,Rude story were all told—a stageWhere age-Old patriarchs make wayFor jostling, upstart youth and gay,Bepainted courtezans and those who weepWith trailing tears; and anchorites who keepTheir solitary trysts; and those who sing;And gossips bent in whispering;Defiant wretches of the sod,Hurling invective at their God;Or those whose arms in priestly-wiseTurn supplicating to the skies,Or stoop to blessWith benediction and caress;And gnarled hagsAnd misshaped monsters of the crags;And moon-white hostsOf beckoning ghosts.
With wild, spendthrift magnificenceThe stage is set—immenseAnd primal. FlashAnd flood and thunder-crash,Devouring flame and scattered deadAnd silences that hang like lead.StuffEnough for drama if the roughRude story were all told;A tale as oldAs dusk, as new as dawn—The play is always going on—The curtain’s never drawn.