The Wood-pile

OUT walking in the frozen swamp one grey dayI paused and said, "I will turn back from here.No, I will go on farther--and we shall see."The hard snow held me, save where now and thenOne foot went down. The view was all in linesStraight up and down of tall slim treesToo much alike to mark or name a place bySo as to say for certain I was hereOr somewhere else: I was just far from home.A small bird flew before me. He was carefulTo put a tree between us when he lighted,And say no word to tell me who he wasWho was so foolish as to think what he thought.He thought that I was after him for a feather--The white one in his tail; like one who takesEverything said as personal to himself.One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.And then there was a pile of wood for whichI forgot him and let his little fearCarry him off the way I might have gone,Without so much as wishing him good-night.He went behind it to make his last stand.It was a cord of maple, cut and splitAnd piled--and measured, four by four by eight.And not another like it could I see.No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.And it was older sure than this year's cutting,Or even last year's or the year's before.The wood was grey and the bark warping off itAnd the pile somewhat sunken. ClematisHad wound strings round and round it like a bundle.What held it though on one side was a treeStill growing, and on one a stake and prop,These latter about to fall. I thought that onlySomeone who lived in turning to fresh tasksCould so forget his handiwork on whichHe spent himself, the labour of his axe,And leave it there far from a useful fireplaceTo warm the frozen swamp as best it couldWith the slow smokeless burning of decay.