Lay him down where the fern is thick and fair. <br />Fain was he for life, here lies he low: <br />With the blood washed clean from his brow and his beautiful hair, <br />Lay him here in the dell where the orchids grow. <br /> <br />Let the birch-bark torches roar in the gloom, <br />And the trees crowd up in a quiet startled ring <br />So lone is the land that in this lonely room <br />Never before has breathed a human thing. <br /> <br />Cover him well in his canvas shroud, and the moss <br />Part and heap again on his quiet breast, <br />What recks he now of gain, or love, or loss <br />Who for love gained rest? <br /> <br />While she who caused it all hides her insolent eyes <br />Or braids her hair with the ribbons of lust and of lies, <br />And he who did the deed fares out like a hunted beast <br />To lurk where the musk-ox tramples the barren ground <br />Where the stroke of his coward heart is the only sound. <br /> <br />Haunting the tamarac shade, <br />Hear them up-thronging <br />Memories foredoomed <br />Of strife and of longing: <br />Haggard or bright <br />By the tamaracs and birches, <br />Where the red torch light <br />Trembles and searches, <br />The wilderness teems <br />With inscrutable eyes <br />Of ghosts that are dreams <br />Commingled with memories. <br /> <br />Leave him here in his secret ferny tomb, <br />Withdraw the little light from the ocean of gloom, <br />He who feared nought will fear aught never, <br />Left alone in the forest forever and ever. <br /> <br />Then, as we fare on our way to the shore <br />Sudden the torches cease to roar: <br />For cleaving the darkness remote and still <br />Comes a wind with a rushing, harp-like thrill, <br />The sound of wings hurled and furled and unfurled, <br />The wings of the Angel who gathers the souls from the wastes of <br />the world.<br /><br />Duncan Campbell Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/night-burial-in-the-forest/
