Thomas Hardy

In a Wook

PALE beech and pine-tree blue,
       Set in one clay,
    Bough to bough cannot you
       Bide out your day?
    When the rains skim and skip,
    Why mar sweet comradeship,
    Blighting with poison-drip
       Neighborly spray?
 
    Heart-halt and spirit-lame,
       City-opprest,
    Unto this wood I came
       As to a nest;
    Dreaming that sylvan peace
    Offered the harrowed ease—
    Nature a soft release
       From men’s unrest.
 
    But, having entered in,
       Great growths and small
    Show them to men akin—
       Combatants all!
    Sycamore shoulders oak,
    Bines the slim sapling yoke,
    Ivy-spun halters choke
       Elms stout and tall.
 
    Touches from ash, O wych,
       Sting you like scorn!
    You, too, brave hollies, twitch
       Sidelong from thorn.
    Even the rank poplars bear
    Illy a rival’s air,
    Cankering in black despair
       If overborne.
 
    Since, then, no grace I find
       Taught me of trees,
    Turn I back to my kind,
       Worthy as these.
    There at least smiles abound,
    There discourse trills around,
    There, now and then, are found
       Life-loyalties.
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