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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348205" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Woodcutter's Hut</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken<br>woods,<br>Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes,<br>The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show<br>A blunted peak and a low black line, from the glittering waste of snow.<br>In the frost-still dawn from his roof goes up in the windless,<br>motionless air,<br>The thin, pink curl of leisurely smoke; through the forest white and<br>bare<br>The woodcutter follows his narrow trail, and the morning rings and<br>cracks<br>With the rhythmic jet of his sharp-blown breath and the echoing shout of<br>his axe.<br>Only the waft of the wind besides, or the stir of some hardy bird--<br>The call of the friendly chickadee, or the pat of the nuthatch--is<br>heard;<br>Or a rustle comes from a dusky clump, where the busy siskins feed,<br>And scatter the dimpled sheet of the snow with the shells of the<br>cedar-seed.<br>Day after day the woodcutter toils untiring with axe and wedge,<br>Till the jingling teams come up from the road that runs by the valley's<br>edge,<br>With plunging of horses, and hurling of snow, and many a shouted word,<br>And carry away the keen-scented fruit of his cutting, cord upon cord.<br>Not the sound of a living foot comes else, not a moving visitant there,<br>Save the delicate step of some halting doe, or the sniff of a prowling<br>bear.<br>And only the stars are above him at night, and the trees that creak and<br>groan,<br>And the frozen, hard-swept mountain-crests with their silent fronts of<br>stone,<br>As he watches the sinking glow of his fire and the wavering flames<br>upcaught,<br>Cleaning his rifle or mending his moccasins, sleepy and slow of<br>thought.<br>Or when the fierce snow comes, with the rising wind, from the grey<br>north-east,<br>He lies through the leaguering hours in his bunk like a winter-hidden<br>beast,<br>Or sits on the hard-packed earth, and smokes by his draught-blown<br>guttering fire,<br>Without thought or remembrance, hardly awake, and waits for the storm<br>to tire.<br>Scarcely he hears from the rock-rimmed heights to the wild ravines<br>below,<br>Near and far-off, the limitless wings of the tempest hurl and go<br>In roaring gusts that plunge through the cracking forest, and lull,<br>and lift,<br>All day without stint and all night long with the sweep of the hissing<br>drift.<br>But winter shall pass ere long with its hills of snow and its fettered<br>dreams,<br>And the forest shall glimmer with living gold, and chime with the<br>gushing of streams;<br>Millions of little points of plants shall prick through its matted<br>floor,<br>And the wind-flower lift and uncurl her silken buds by the woodman's<br>door;<br>The sparrow shall see and exult; but lo! as the spring draws gaily on,<br>The woodcutter's hut is empty and bare, and the master that made it is<br>gone.<br>He is gone where the gathering of valley men another labour yields,<br>To handle the plough, and the harrow, and scythe, in the heat of the<br>summer fields.<br>He is gone with his corded arms, and his ruddy face, and his moccasined<br>feet,<br>The animal man in his warmth and vigour, sound, and hard, and complete.<br>And all summer long, round the lonely hut, the black earth burgeons and<br>breeds,<br>Till the spaces are filled with the tall-plumed ferns and the triumphing<br>forest-weeds;<br>The thick wild raspberries hem its walls, and, stretching on either<br>hand,<br>The red-ribbed stems and the giant-leaves of the sovereign spikenard<br>stand.<br>So lonely and silent it is, so withered and warped with the sun and<br>snow,<br>You would think it the fruit of some dead man's toil a hundred years<br>ago;<br>And he who finds it suddenly there, as he wanders far and alone,<br>Is touched with a sweet and beautiful sense of something tender and<br>gone,<br>The sense of a struggling life in the waste, and the mark of a soul's<br>command,<br>The going and coming of vanished feet, the touch of a human hand.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Archibald+Lampman">Archibald Lampman</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=348205" data-title="The Woodcutter's Hut de Archibald Lampman" data-description="Far up in the wild and wintery hills in the heart of the cliff-broken
woods,
Where the mounded drifts lie soft and deep in the noiseless solitudes,
The hut of the lonely woodcutter stands, a few rough beams that show
A blunted peak and a low black..."></div>
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