The endless gloom of a lowly place,
And the dreary tedium from his face.
His gleaming axe gives up to the light
Hearts of stubborn sticks and blocks—
A century maple or birch unlocks
Its fibres gathered through day and night;
And he marks it all with his ancient lore
As he reads the secret of bark and core.
In forest lore is Simon wise:
The beech that ripens on the hill,