The forest rears no tombstone for its dead, But builds a soft brown floor of fallen leaves. And where torn logs remember glories fled, Only the night-wind grieves. The towered lords of yesterday still give Their substance for tomorrow's bud and shoot; Ten thousand murmurous generations live Within each thrusting root. And this the monument the woods bestow On the great oak, cloven and rent apart: That a green seedling, after years, will grow Out of its crumbled heart. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MEMOIR OF A PROUD BOY by CARL SANDBURG MY SHADOW by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON FRANCE; THE 18TH YEAR OF THESE STATES by WALT WHITMAN COMPLAINS OF THE COURT by PHILIP AYRES CLOUDS by EDUARD VON BAUERNFELD PSALM 58 (VERSION 1) by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE FIAMMETTA: SONNET. TO DANTE IN PARADISE by GIOVANNI BOCCACCIO |