THE TIMBER-LINE
We were not meant for forest life— Not we! we chose the strife Of high adventure—took our luck Here on the rocks and here we’ve stuck We are the pigmies of the spurs— The little warriors!
Perched on these crags, we hurled Our challenge to the world. The wind heard our defy And blew till all the sky Grew purply-black and thundery. Uncommon wroth was he, When like a rumbling blunderbuss He tried to topple us, But wallowed flat—we were too short To fall! And it was merry sport Upon our jagged floor To see him wrestling there; a score Of holds he tried and thought each bout Would tire us out.
Oh Lord, The way he stormed and roared! Then desperate he tried to tear Us limb from limb—to wear Us down upon his rack, A-bending back Our arms, so we would cry “enough!” We were too tough To crack! Then came the snow—so light At first, but soon its white Dead weight in silence crept Upon our shoulders and we slept The sleep that no spring wakes, But only summer breaks, When with her melting hand she takes Our blankets off and shakes The dripping fleece into the flow Of rushing torrents far below.
Thus we are stooped by weight of snows And twisted by each wind that blows; Our arms are gouged and shot By sharp-edged sands the winds have caught And driven home; our trunks are gashed And riven where the lightning flashed, And little increase may we show, So brief a season do we grow. Though Time’s attrition has been spent In our grotesque disfigurement. Still we can lift our flattened heads In pride, for we are thoroughbreds. We have not flinched and we can show At what far heights a tree can grow. We are the pigmies of the spurs— The little warriors Who left the haunts of fir and pine To mark the topmost timber-line.