High in the woodland, on the mountain-side, I ponder, half a golden afternoon, Storing deep strength to battle with the tide I must encounter soon. Absorbed, inquisitive, alert, irate, The wiry wood-ants run beneath the pines, And bustle if a careless footfall grate Among their travelled lines. With prey unwieldy, slain in alien lands, When shadows fall aslant, laden they come, Where, piled of red fir-needles, guarded stands Their dry and rustling dome. They toil for what they know not; rest they shun; They nip the soft intruder; when they die They grapple pain and fate, and ask from none The pity they deny. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CHILTERNS by RUPERT BROOKE MODERN LOVE: 50 by GEORGE MEREDITH THE LITTLE GHOST by EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY HOW TO CATCH A BLACK-FISH by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD A GIRL'S SONG IN THE WILDERNESS by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH THE HOMES OF THE DEAD by ELIZA COOK |