Here, is the Wood, Medieval.
The murmuring Pines, and the dark Hemlocks,
Bearded with Lichens,
And in Garments, tall and Green;
Indistinct in the Twilight:
Stand, like Spanish Hidalgos of old,
With Voices gaunt and Messianic,
Bent low, like Harpists' Hands,
With Beards that rest upon their Bosoms.
Roaring aloud, from it's Stony Crags,
The Baritone, Neighboring Ocean,
Speaks,
And, in Dialects, dis-comforting,
Answers the wailed Lament of the Woods.
This, is the Forest, Gothic;
So, where are those Hearts, that, beneath it's Bows,
Leapt like the Boar, when He hears in the Thicket,
The voice of the Huntsman, Longbow-armed?
Where is that Woven-Roof Village,
The Home of the Yeoman-Farmers:
Those Peasants, whose Lives glided on,
Like Rivers that water the Woodlands,
Darkened by Shadows of the sodden Earth,
Yet, reflecting, in the Image of Heaven?
Wasted, are those happy, Gated Keeps,
And the gallant Knight, in silvery Armor,
Forever, now, departed!
Scattered, as the dust, and as the leaves,
When the mighty blasts of Autumn,
Seize them, like vengeful Pike-Men,
And twirl them aloft the Airs,
And, sprinkle them, far-flung, over the distant Seas;
None, but Tradition, remains,
Of the sweet, Feudal Cloisters of these Ages.
Still, you who hold, and long, the Faith,
In the Fondness,
Which, again, lingers, and prevails,
In lengthy, Promised Patience;
You, who Believe, in the Beauty of Art,
And the Power, of the Lover's Devotion:
Listen, now, to the saddened Tradition,
Still, today, recited, and heard as whispered Prayers,
As they ever were, in the Braver Days of Yore,
By the Pines of the Forest.