THE WHITE PINE.

’Tis not the grace of yonder beach, Its crescent-curve and swing, Nor bastion-crags of Manomet Whose sarabands I sing. Mine be those woodland symphonies Of spirit-power divine, Like lullabies when evening wraps The old storm-beaten pine. Or, be it their defiant chords, When wintry hordes complain, While Triton thunders down the gale, The lightning in his train; And I would hymn their litanies, The incense on my breath, Like Alp-horn notes that echo on Oblivious of death. Plymouth, September 21, 1920.