The glittering crescent of my blade Is stuck with juices of the tree: There is the wound which I have made, There are the dark boughs over me. I swing the axe. The cones are shaken And the shuddering tree begins to come With ripping shrieks which might awaken The gorged fox in his hidden home. My blood is brightened and my eyes Are blurred with flashes of a fire That leaps like wind and only dies When I have cut what I require. The fresh chips falling in the snow Have something for the sunny wind Which rose a little while ago In the old spruce forest I have thinned, And I whose cheeks can feel it blow Rest aching hands upon my axe And have a desperate wish to know What kind of flame my chimney lacks. . . . Why covet skeletons for food To keep a man from stiffening With cold not made to chill the blood Of fox's foot or bird's wing? |