Cabin stands in clearing, unkempt, deserted; Leans against the hillside, by highway skirted; Peers through haloed memories, on scenes perverted, Vandaled by progress. Always, it is muttering some old, old story; Always, it is whispering some allegory. Can it be the spirit of former glory Dwelling in sadness? It was friendly shelter against weird presences; Habitat of settlers who trekked vast distances; Home of pioneers who endured the silences, Born of the stillness. Morning-glories clambered upon its clapboards; Maple trees in springtime gave up their sap-hoards, Forests harmonized the woodpeckers' tap-swords Drummed in the wildness. Lonely hut, neglected by prideful nation; Empty, it is Rachel, in lamentation; Should it not be given some consideration In its aloneness? Cabin, born of wildwood, whose arms were far-flung, Guardian of frontier where the trails were star-hung, Symbol of our country where always are sung Songs of the fearless. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE OLD VIOLIN by MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN THE REVEILLE by FRANCIS BRET HARTE WHERE SHALL THE BABY'S DIMPLE BE? by JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND THE SPIRES OF OXFORD by WINIFRED MARY LETTS TO THE NIGHTINGALE by JOHN MILTON |