They sent my forest to a paper-mill, My forest, lifted solemnly and still For skies to brood and morning sun to kiss, Now torn to pulp and flattened into this -- This endless mass of paper, smudged with ink, And flung abroad to men that will not think. Instead of sweet green leaves, this dingy white; Instead of bird-songs and the pure delight Of sturdy trunk and loving shadowy bough, The berry glints, the asters -- nothing now But crumpled pages hurled beneath a train, Or sodden in a gutter by the rain. Ah, when, thou monstrous Press, thou mighty force, When wilt thou bear thee worthy of thy source? When, in the glad remembrance of the wood, Wilt thou be soundly sweet and stanchly good, Fragrant and pure and masterfully free, And calmly strong as thine own parent tree? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: WASHINGTON MCNEELY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS HOW MY HEART SINKS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE GIFT TO SING by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON CRITIC AND POET by EMMA LAZARUS THE LAKE BOATS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS |