In a Wood
Pale beech and pine-tree blue,Set in one clay,Bough to bough cannot youBide out your day?When the rains skim and skip,Why mar sweet comradeship,Blighting with poison-dripNeighbourly spray?
Heart-halt and spirit-lame,City-opprest,Unto this wood I cameAs to a nest;Dreaming that sylvan peaceOffered the harrowed ease—Nature a soft releaseFrom men’s unrest.
But, having entered in,Great growths and smallShow them to men akin—Combatants all!Sycamore shoulders oak,Bines the slim sapling yoke,Ivy-spun halters chokeElms stout and tall.
Touches from ash, O wych,Sting you like scorn!You, too, brave hollies, twitchSidelong from thorn.Even the rank poplars bearIlly a rival’s air,Cankering in black despairIf overborne.
Since, then, no grace I findTaught me of trees,Turn I back to my kind,Worthy as these.There at least smiles abound,There discourse trills around,There, now and then, are foundLife-loyalties.
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