To the soul there is no sound that chimes more dolorously, no sound of more severe, of more religious tone -- sudden it holds you mute, it turns you to a stone -- than the sonorous shock of steel against a tree. I love to hear that sound where conquering death intrudes. Yes, I dearly love to hear, seeking the distant sun, the dull blows of the axe resound with muffled tone, amid the silence vast of dim and sombre woods. Closing my eyes I see, as of the soul I dream, the fatal woodsman strike. No rancour speeds his blows. Taciturn he strikes, he reckons up his woes before his hut of logs, where ravening flame doth gleam. He strikes. . . . Thus round him death, with axe-blade rapier-keen, strikes, strikes, and strikes again, with strokes no rancour brings. May he gain some trifling joy 'mid such excess of woes! 'Mid dull, resounding blows with friendly voice serene to the old chopper of oaks the robin blithely sings. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A GRAMMARIAN'S FUNERAL by ROBERT BROWNING THE SICKNESS by CHARLES BUKOWSKI DOROTHY'S DOWER by PHOEBE CARY FLANNAN ISLE by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE PREACHER by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER BUDDHA AND BRAHMA by HENRY BROOKS ADAMS |