High in the woodland, on the mountain-side, I ponder, half a golden afternoon, Storing deep strength to battle with the tide I must encounter soon. Absorbed, inquisitive, alert, irate, The wiry wood-ants run beneath the pines, And bustle if a careless footfall grate Among their travelled lines. With prey unwieldy, slain in alien lands, When shadows fall aslant, laden they come, Where, piled of red fir-needles, guarded stands Their dry and rustling dome. They toil for what they know not; rest they shun; They nip the soft intruder; when they die They grapple pain and fate, and ask from none The pity they deny. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ANTIQUITY OF FREEDOM by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT THE ROSE AND THORN by PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE BINSEY POPLARS (FELLED 1879) by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS HILL MAN'S BURIAL by LILLIAN M. (PETTES) AINSWORTH ODES: BOOK 1. ODE 1. PREFACE by MARK AKENSIDE |