64. THE HILL PINES WERE SIGHING
Reading edition
The hill pines were sighing, O'ercast and chill was the day: A mist in the valley lying Blotted the pleasant May.
But deep in the glen's bosom Summer slept in the fire Of the odorous gorse-blossom And the hot scent of the brier.
A ribald cuckoo clamoured, And out of the copse the stroke Of the iron axe that hammered The iron heart of the oak.
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Anon a sound appalling, As a hundred years of pride Crashed, in the silence falling; And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
Robert Bridges.