THE WHITE PINE.
’Tis not the grace of yonder beach,
Its crescent-curve and swing,
Nor bastion-crags of Manomet
Whose sarabands I sing.
Mine be those woodland symphonies
Of spirit-power divine,
Like lullabies when evening wraps
The old storm-beaten pine.
Or, be it their defiant chords,
When wintry hordes complain,
While Triton thunders down the gale,
The lightning in his train;
And I would hymn their litanies,
The incense on my breath,
Like Alp-horn notes that echo on
Oblivious of death.
Plymouth,
September 21, 1920.