  Stumps, and harsh rocks, and prostrate trunks all charred, And gnarled roots naked to the sun and rain,— They seem in their grim stillness to complain, And by their plaint the evening peace is jarred. These ragged acres fire and the axe have scarred, And many summers not assuaged their pain. In vain the pink and saffron light, in vain The pale dew on the hillocks stripped and marred! But here and there the waste is touched with cheer Where spreads the fire-weed like a crimson flood And venturous plumes of golden-rod appear; And round the blackened fence the great boughs lean With comfort; and across the solitude The hermit’s holy transport peals serene. |
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