IN a Scotch-fir wood— Where the great rays of the low sun glanced through the trees, in open beauty under the shaggy green, Lighting stem behind stem in lofty strength interminable; And the wild sweet air ran lightly by, with warm scent of pine-needles— I heard a voice saying: O Man, when wilt thou come fit comrade of such trees, fair mate and crown of such a scene? Poor pigmy, botched in clothes, feet coffined in boots, braced, stitched and starched, Too feeble, alas! too mean, undignified, to be endured— Go hence, and in the centuries come again! |