Wednesday, December 14, 2011


A Sound Appalling

Robert Bridges (1844-1930), Shorter Poems, IV, 12, in his Poetical Works, Vol. II (London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1899), p. 138:
The hill pines were sighing,
O'ercast and chill was the day:
A mist in the valley lying
Blotted the pleasant May.

But deep in the glen's bosom
Summer slept in the fire
Of the odorous gorse-blossom
And the hot scent of the brier.

A ribald cuckoo clamoured,
And out of the copse the stroke
Of the iron axe that hammered
The iron heart of the oak.

Anon a sound appalling,
As a hundred years of pride
Crashed, in the silence falling;
And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
Darius Kinsey, Bucker Crosscutting Fallen Spruce

Hat tip: Eric Thomson.


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