The forest rears no tombstone for its dead, But builds a soft brown floor of fallen leaves. And where torn logs remember glories fled, Only the night-wind grieves. The towered lords of yesterday still give Their substance for tomorrow's bud and shoot; Ten thousand murmurous generations live Within each thrusting root. And this the monument the woods bestow On the great oak, cloven and rent apart: That a green seedling, after years, will grow Out of its crumbled heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NEW INN: A VISION OF BEAUTY by BEN JONSON THE LAST RESERVATION by WALTER LEARNED THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 2D SERIES. THE COURTIN' by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL IKE WALTON'S PRAYER by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY A BALLADE OF LAWN TENNIS by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS IN EMULATION OF MR. COWLEYS POEM CALL'D THE MOTTO by MARY ASTELL ALEXANDER VI DINES WITH THE CARDINAL OF CAPUA by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET THE RECRUITING SERGEANT; A MUSICAL ENTERTAINMENT: AIR by ISAAC BICKERSTAFFE |