THE TIMBER-LINE
Wewere not meant for forest life—Not we! we chose the strifeOf high adventure—took our luckHere on the rocks and here we’ve stuckWe are the pigmies of the spurs—The little warriors!Perched on these crags, we hurledOur challenge to the world.The wind heard our defyAnd blew till all the skyGrew purply-black and thundery.Uncommon wroth was he,When like a rumbling blunderbussHe tried to topple us,But wallowed flat—we were too shortTo fall! And it was merry sportUpon our jagged floorTo see him wrestling there; a scoreOf holds he tried and thought each boutWould tire us out.Oh Lord,The way he stormed and roared!Then desperate he tried to tearUs limb from limb—to wearUs down upon his rack,A-bending backOur arms, so we would cry “enough!”We were tootoughTo crack! Then came the snow—so lightAt first, but soon its whiteDead weight in silence creptUpon our shoulders and we sleptThe sleep that no spring wakes,But only summer breaks,When with her melting hand she takesOur blankets off and shakesThe dripping fleece into the flowOf rushing torrents far below.Thus we are stooped by weight of snowsAnd twisted by each wind that blows;Our arms are gouged and shotBy sharp-edged sands the winds have caughtAnd driven home; our trunks are gashedAnd riven where the lightning flashed,And little increase may we show,So brief a season do we grow.Though Time’s attrition has been spentIn our grotesque disfigurement.Still we can lift our flattened headsIn pride, for we are thoroughbreds.We have not flinched and we can showAt what far heights a tree can grow.We are the pigmies of the spurs—The little warriorsWho left the haunts of fir and pineTo mark the topmost timber-line.
Wewere not meant for forest life—Not we! we chose the strifeOf high adventure—took our luckHere on the rocks and here we’ve stuckWe are the pigmies of the spurs—The little warriors!Perched on these crags, we hurledOur challenge to the world.The wind heard our defyAnd blew till all the skyGrew purply-black and thundery.Uncommon wroth was he,When like a rumbling blunderbussHe tried to topple us,But wallowed flat—we were too shortTo fall! And it was merry sportUpon our jagged floorTo see him wrestling there; a scoreOf holds he tried and thought each boutWould tire us out.Oh Lord,The way he stormed and roared!Then desperate he tried to tearUs limb from limb—to wearUs down upon his rack,A-bending backOur arms, so we would cry “enough!”We were tootoughTo crack! Then came the snow—so lightAt first, but soon its whiteDead weight in silence creptUpon our shoulders and we sleptThe sleep that no spring wakes,But only summer breaks,When with her melting hand she takesOur blankets off and shakesThe dripping fleece into the flowOf rushing torrents far below.Thus we are stooped by weight of snowsAnd twisted by each wind that blows;Our arms are gouged and shotBy sharp-edged sands the winds have caughtAnd driven home; our trunks are gashedAnd riven where the lightning flashed,And little increase may we show,So brief a season do we grow.Though Time’s attrition has been spentIn our grotesque disfigurement.Still we can lift our flattened headsIn pride, for we are thoroughbreds.We have not flinched and we can showAt what far heights a tree can grow.We are the pigmies of the spurs—The little warriorsWho left the haunts of fir and pineTo mark the topmost timber-line.
Wewere not meant for forest life—Not we! we chose the strifeOf high adventure—took our luckHere on the rocks and here we’ve stuckWe are the pigmies of the spurs—The little warriors!
Perched on these crags, we hurledOur challenge to the world.The wind heard our defyAnd blew till all the skyGrew purply-black and thundery.Uncommon wroth was he,When like a rumbling blunderbussHe tried to topple us,But wallowed flat—we were too shortTo fall! And it was merry sportUpon our jagged floorTo see him wrestling there; a scoreOf holds he tried and thought each boutWould tire us out.
Oh Lord,The way he stormed and roared!Then desperate he tried to tearUs limb from limb—to wearUs down upon his rack,A-bending backOur arms, so we would cry “enough!”We were tootoughTo crack! Then came the snow—so lightAt first, but soon its whiteDead weight in silence creptUpon our shoulders and we sleptThe sleep that no spring wakes,But only summer breaks,When with her melting hand she takesOur blankets off and shakesThe dripping fleece into the flowOf rushing torrents far below.
Thus we are stooped by weight of snowsAnd twisted by each wind that blows;Our arms are gouged and shotBy sharp-edged sands the winds have caughtAnd driven home; our trunks are gashedAnd riven where the lightning flashed,And little increase may we show,So brief a season do we grow.Though Time’s attrition has been spentIn our grotesque disfigurement.Still we can lift our flattened headsIn pride, for we are thoroughbreds.We have not flinched and we can showAt what far heights a tree can grow.We are the pigmies of the spurs—The little warriorsWho left the haunts of fir and pineTo mark the topmost timber-line.