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