THE DOUGLAS FIR
By crowding upward toward the light Day and night, We lift (the lifting never stops) Our panoply of towering tops. We are all height and gloom; We have no room, No place For our own brothers in the race For light; if they can not keep pace With us, nor reach as high, They die!
Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain, Thus we maintain Our creed, which is to rise In unspoiled beauty toward the skies— We make no compromise! Across the fire-swept areas our seeds Are blown, to drop among the weeds. A little while they lie And germinate, and by and by WE spring—a sapling here—and there— And everywhere, Elbowing in Through chinkapin And rhododendrons and the crush Of maple brush; Before we know, We’ve grown into a forest, while below We glimpse the copse And see the tops Of things That have become our underlings.
There are no thicker stands Than ours, in all the Northwest lands— By grace of rivalry we grow so straight, And thrive and dominate.
Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain, Thus we maintain Our creed, which is to rise In unspoiled beauty toward the skies.