Stumps, and harsh rocks, and prostrate trunks all charred, <br /> And gnarled roots naked to the sun and rain,-- <br /> They seem in their grim stillness to complain, <br />And be their paint the evening peace is jarred. <br />These ragged acres fire and the axe have scarred, <br /> And many summers not assuaged their pain. <br /> In vain the pink and saffron light, in vain <br />The pale dew on the hillocks stripped and marred! <br /> <br />But here and there the waste is touched with cheer <br /> Where spreads the fire-weed like a crimson flood <br />And venturous plumes of golden-rod appear; <br /> And round the blackened fence the great boughs lean <br />With comfort; and across the solitude <br /> The hermit's holy transport peals serene.<br /><br />Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-clearing/
