| |
| OUT walking in the frozen swamp one grey day | |
| I paused and said, “I will turn back from here. | |
| No, I will go on farther—and we shall see.” | |
| The hard snow held me, save where now and then | |
| One foot went down. The view was all in lines | 5 |
| Straight up and down of tall slim trees | |
| Too much alike to mark or name a place by | |
| So as to say for certain I was here | |
| Or somewhere else: I was just far from home. | |
| A small bird flew before me. He was careful | 10 |
| To put a tree between us when he lighted, | |
| And say no word to tell me who he was | |
| Who was so foolish as to think what he thought. | |
| He thought that I was after him for a feather— | |
| The white one in his tail; like one who takes | 15 |
| Everything said as personal to himself. | |
| One flight out sideways would have undeceived him. | |
| And then there was a pile of wood for which | |
| I forgot him and let his little fear | |
| Carry him off the way I might have gone, | 20 |
| Without so much as wishing him good-night. | |
| He went behind it to make his last stand. | |
| It was a cord of maple, cut and split | |
| And piled—and measured, four by four by eight. | |
| And not another like it could I see. | 25 |
| No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it. | |
| And it was older sure than this year’s cutting, | |
| Or even last year’s or the year’s before. | |
| The wood was grey and the bark warping off it | |
| And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis | 30 |
| Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle. | |
| What held it though on one side was a tree | |
| Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, | |
| These latter about to fall. I thought that only | |
| Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks | 35 |
| Could so forget his handiwork on which | |
| He spent himself, the labour of his axe, | |
| And leave it there far from a useful fireplace | |
| To warm the frozen swamp as best it could | |
| With the slow smokeless burning of decay. | 40 |
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