Cabin stands in clearing, unkempt, deserted; Leans against the hillside, by highway skirted; Peers through haloed memories, on scenes perverted, Vandaled by progress. Always, it is muttering some old, old story; Always, it is whispering some allegory. Can it be the spirit of former glory Dwelling in sadness? It was friendly shelter against weird presences; Habitat of settlers who trekked vast distances; Home of pioneers who endured the silences, Born of the stillness. Morning-glories clambered upon its clapboards; Maple trees in springtime gave up their sap-hoards, Forests harmonized the woodpeckers' tap-swords Drummed in the wildness. Lonely hut, neglected by prideful nation; Empty, it is Rachel, in lamentation; Should it not be given some consideration In its aloneness? Cabin, born of wildwood, whose arms were far-flung, Guardian of frontier where the trails were star-hung, Symbol of our country where always are sung Songs of the fearless. |