See that lovely, stately thing! Once a poet sweet did sing About its beauty rare! Those were days, O son of mine, When that tree -- they call the pine -- Grew as thick as this dark dust That's in the air! And someone thought it would be fine To take the trees, they call the pine, And make silk hose -- Like magic, cities soon were built, They played the project to the hilt -- But hold your nose! The pulp mills where they make all these Do scent the air and spoil the breeze, But other things That people seem to think they need Are made; like magazines to read, That culture brings. So fell the trees that sheltered birds; We make pulp for the printed words, And @3write of Trees@1. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CINQUAIN: NIGHT WINDS by ADELAIDE CRAPSEY GRENADIER by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN SONNET: TO SLEEP by JOHN KEATS EPIGRAM ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG by ALEXANDER POPE AGE IN YOUTH by TRUMBULL STICKNEY PSALM 96 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE |