Classic and Contemporary Poetry
ELK COUNTY, by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL Poet's Biography First Line: From lands of the elk and the pine-tree Last Line: As wild as the runes of the fiords. Subject(s): Elk; Forests; Trees; Woods | ||||||||
FROM lands of the elk and the pine-tree, Of hemlock and whitewood and maple, You ask me to write you a lyric Shall thrill with the cries of the forest, And flow like the sap of the maple, The rich yellow blood of the maple, That hath such a wild, lusty sweetness, Such a taste of the wilderness in it. And surely 't were pleasant to summon The days which so lately have vanished, The friends who were part of their pleasure. Right cheery for me, in the city, To think once again of the sunsets We watched from the crest of the hilltop, Alone on the stumps in the clearing; When slowly the forms of the mountains, Our own hills, our loved Alleghanies, Grew hazy and distant and solemn, Cloaked each with the shade of his neighbor; Like rigid old Puritans scorning The passion and riot of color, Of yellow and purple and scarlet, Which haunt the gay court of the sunset, Where Eve, like a wild Cinderella, Awaits the gray fairy of twilight. Sweet, ever, to think of the forests, Their cool, woody fragrance delicious; To think of the camp-fires we builded To baffle those terrible pungies; To think how we wandered, bewildered With wood-dreams and delicate fancies Unknown to the life of the city. To tread but those cushioning mosses; To lie, almost float, on the fern-beds; To feel the crisp crush of the foot on The mouldering logs of the windfall, Were things to be held in remembrance. Dost recall how we lingered to listen The sound of the wood-robin's bugle, Or bent the witch-hopple to guide us, As one folds the page he is reading, And felt, as we peered through the stillness, Through armies and legions of tree-trunks, Such solemn and brooding sensations As told of the birth of religions, As whispered how men grow to Druids When the fly-wheel of work is arrested, And they live the still life of the forest? Ay, here in the face of the woodman, You see how the woods have been preaching, As he leans on the logs of his cabin To watch the prim city-folk coming O'er the chips, and the twigs, and the stubble, Through the fire-scarred stumps, and the hemlocks His axe hath so ruthlessly girdled. Ay, he too has learned in the forest, One half of him Nimrod and slayer, Unsparing, enduring, and tireless, In wait for the deer at the salt-lick; Yet one stronger half of his nature This rough and bold out-of-door nature, Hath touches of sadness upon it, And is grown to the ways of the forest, Till wildness and softness together Are one in the sap of his being. Right pleasant it were, friend and lady, To tell you some tale of the woodland; To hear the faint voice of tradition, Of childish and simple conceptions, And find in their half-spoken meanings Some thought all the nations have muttered In the parable tongues of their childhood. Alas for the tale and the writer! The land has no story to tell us, No voice save the Clarion's waters, No song save the murm'rous confusion Of winds gone astray in the pine-tops, Or the roar of the rain on the hemlocks; No record, no sign, not a word of The lords of the axe and the rifle, Who camped by the smooth Alleghany, And blazed the first tree on the mountain. Yet here, even here in the forest, The soul-calming deep of the forest, Where cat-birds are noisy and dauntless, And deft little miserly squirrels Are hoarding the beech-nuts for winter; Where rattlesnakes charm, and the hoot-owl By night sounds his murderous war-pipe, Yes, here in the last home of Nature, Where the greenness that swells o'er the hillock Is pink with the blossoming laurel, The wants of the city still haunt us, When busy blue axes are ringing, And totter the kings of the mountain. Ah, well you recall, I can fancy, The morn we looked down on the valley That bears the proud name of the battle, Itself a fair field for the winning; Recall, too, the frank speech which told us Who felled the first tree in the valley Where now the red heifers are browsing, And reapers are swinging their cradles, And fat grow the stacks with the harvest. Canst see, too, the dam and the mill-pond, The trees in the dark amber water, Where thousands of pine logs are tethered, With maple and black birch and cherry? Canst hear, as I hear, the gay hum of The bright, whizzing saw in the steam-mill, Its up-and-down old-fashioned neighbor Singing, "Go it!" and "Go it!" and "Go it!" As it whirrs through the heart of the pine-tree, And spouts out the saw-dust, and filleth The air with its resinous odors? Ay, gnaw at them morning and evening, Thou hungry old dog of a sawmill! The planks thou art shaping so deftly Shall ring with the tramp of the raftsmen, Shall drift on the shallow Ohio, Shall build thy fair homes, Cincinnati, Shall see the gay steamers go by them, Shall float on the broad Mississippi, Shall floor the rough cabins of Kansas. And here is a tale for the poet, A story of Saxon endurance, A story of work and completion, A legend of rough-handed labor As wild as the runes of the fiords. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PRINCESS WAKES IN THE WOOD by RANDALL JARRELL CHAMBER MUSIC: 20 by JAMES JOYCE ADVICE TO A FOREST by MAXWELL BODENHEIM A SOUTH CAROLINA FOREST by AMY LOWELL JOY IN THE WOODS by CLAUDE MCKAY IN BLACKWATER WOODS by MARY OLIVER THE PLACE I WANT TO GET BACK TO by MARY OLIVER A DECANTER OF MADEIRA, AGED 86, TO GEORGE BANCROFT, AGED 86 by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL HOW THE CUMBERLAND WENT DOWN [MARCH 8, 1862] by SILAS WEIR MITCHELL |
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