THE GHOST-TREES
Weare the stricken—those who diedBut did not fall. Once, side by side,We burned and bled—We are the countless standing dead.Not like the Capuchins, cowl-topped,Dried in their cerements, stiff-proppedAnd postured in the charnel gloomOf some deep-caverned chapel-room,But in the full, white light of dayWe stand—gaunt, naked, gray—Close-locked in death,Yet ever with the breathOf life around us. We can seeThe quickened green of each young tree,Their bobbing headsUpcrowding at our feet; and bedsOf paint-brush and the blueOf lupine. Years renewTheir seasons—dust and rain and snow.For us dawns glow,And setting suns transfuse our coldAnd ashen palor into gold;Moons rise, and thenWe all are turned to ghosts again.
Weare the stricken—those who diedBut did not fall. Once, side by side,We burned and bled—We are the countless standing dead.Not like the Capuchins, cowl-topped,Dried in their cerements, stiff-proppedAnd postured in the charnel gloomOf some deep-caverned chapel-room,But in the full, white light of dayWe stand—gaunt, naked, gray—Close-locked in death,Yet ever with the breathOf life around us. We can seeThe quickened green of each young tree,Their bobbing headsUpcrowding at our feet; and bedsOf paint-brush and the blueOf lupine. Years renewTheir seasons—dust and rain and snow.For us dawns glow,And setting suns transfuse our coldAnd ashen palor into gold;Moons rise, and thenWe all are turned to ghosts again.
Weare the stricken—those who diedBut did not fall. Once, side by side,We burned and bled—We are the countless standing dead.Not like the Capuchins, cowl-topped,Dried in their cerements, stiff-proppedAnd postured in the charnel gloomOf some deep-caverned chapel-room,But in the full, white light of dayWe stand—gaunt, naked, gray—Close-locked in death,Yet ever with the breathOf life around us. We can seeThe quickened green of each young tree,Their bobbing headsUpcrowding at our feet; and bedsOf paint-brush and the blueOf lupine. Years renewTheir seasons—dust and rain and snow.For us dawns glow,And setting suns transfuse our coldAnd ashen palor into gold;Moons rise, and thenWe all are turned to ghosts again.
We are the stricken—those who diedBut did not fall. Once, side by side,We burned and bled—We are the countless standing dead.
We are the stricken—those who diedBut did not fall. Once, side by side,We burned and bled—We are the countless standing dead.
We are the stricken—those who diedBut did not fall. Once, side by side,We burned and bled—We are the countless standing dead.
We are the stricken—those who diedBut did not fall. Once, side by side,We burned and bled—We are the countless standing dead.
We look upon some mighty fir,Remembering ourselves that were;It was a lightning flash that came,And flameEncircled us. All nightThe sky was crimson with our light.Day dawned upon the hills—the sun rose red,It saw the dying and the dead,The vast, uncounted dead—and over all,A smoky pallThat wavered in the wind. We did not fall—We did not fall, like some—magnificent in strengthWho measured out their length,Still smouldering, upon the ash-heaped matOf earth—we were not burned enough for that.Years passedOur dried bark cracked—at lastIt flaked and fell. In high distressWe were—gaunt in our nakedness.So have we stood—The gray ghost-brotherhood,We who have burned and bledBut did not fall—the standing dead.
We look upon some mighty fir,Remembering ourselves that were;It was a lightning flash that came,And flameEncircled us. All nightThe sky was crimson with our light.Day dawned upon the hills—the sun rose red,It saw the dying and the dead,The vast, uncounted dead—and over all,A smoky pallThat wavered in the wind. We did not fall—We did not fall, like some—magnificent in strengthWho measured out their length,Still smouldering, upon the ash-heaped matOf earth—we were not burned enough for that.Years passedOur dried bark cracked—at lastIt flaked and fell. In high distressWe were—gaunt in our nakedness.So have we stood—The gray ghost-brotherhood,We who have burned and bledBut did not fall—the standing dead.
We look upon some mighty fir,Remembering ourselves that were;It was a lightning flash that came,And flameEncircled us. All nightThe sky was crimson with our light.Day dawned upon the hills—the sun rose red,It saw the dying and the dead,The vast, uncounted dead—and over all,A smoky pallThat wavered in the wind. We did not fall—We did not fall, like some—magnificent in strengthWho measured out their length,Still smouldering, upon the ash-heaped matOf earth—we were not burned enough for that.
Years passedOur dried bark cracked—at lastIt flaked and fell. In high distressWe were—gaunt in our nakedness.So have we stood—The gray ghost-brotherhood,We who have burned and bledBut did not fall—the standing dead.