The Passing of the Trees.
One hour ago a swaying copse
Was where the land so verdant drops
Down to the river's lip.
And then a brief, hot agony
As hungry flames dart up each tree
From bole to tender tip.
The fire was lit by careless hand,
And by a ready wind was fanned
Into a blazing might.
I, helpless but to see and sigh
While lovely trees were forced to die
Without resistant fight.
And now against this sunset cloud
In stark and dead array they crowd,
Last night they were so brave.
What cruel tragedy it seems
To rob a tree of life and dreams,
A tree Our Father gave.

—Mavis R. Lockley.