The Forest Passes
Trees grew in the valley—
Old, gracious trees, and the slimly youthful sapling; Joyous with bird-song, murmurous with soft breezes, And flecked with the sun's dappling.
Man came to the valley, With whine of saw, and the savage axe-blade's ringing, And ravening fire to aid the bright steel's slaughter— To still the birds’ sweet singing.
Charred stumps in the valley
Stand jaggedly, their fallen trunks still lying
Like men unburied in the ghastly wake of battle— Their dirge—a lost wind crying.

—Anne Croft.