Loading
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day,Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray day
Out walking in the frozen swamp one gray 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 through. The view was all in lines 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 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 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, 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. 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 gray and the bark warping off it And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis 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 Could so forget his handiwork on which He spent himself, the labor of his ax, 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.
I was walking in a cold, frozen swamp on a gray day, I stopped and said, 'I will go back from here.' No, I will continue further—and we will see what happens.' The hard snow supported me, except where sometimes One foot sank in. The view was all in straight lines Going up and down of tall, thin trees Too similar to identify or name a place by So I couldn't say for sure I was here Or somewhere else: I was just away from home. A small bird flew ahead of me. He was cautious To place a tree between us when he landed, And said nothing to tell me who he was Who was foolish enough to think what he thought. He thought I was after him for a feather— The white one in his tail; like someone who takes Everything said as if it were personal to him. One sideways flight would have cleared up his misunderstanding. Then there was a pile of wood for which I forgot him and let his little fear Take him away the way I might have gone, Without even saying good-night to him. He went behind it to make his final stand. It was a stack of maple, cut and split And stacked—and measured, four by four by eight. And I couldn't see another like it. No tracks from runners in this year's snow looped near it. And it was surely older than this year's cutting, Or even last year's or the year before. The wood was gray and the bark peeling off it And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis Had wrapped around it like a bundle. What held it on one side was a tree Still growing, and on the other a stake and support, These latter about to fall. I thought that only Someone who moved on to new tasks Could forget his work on which He put in effort, the labor 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.