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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=420735" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Lumbermen</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">WILDLY round our woodland quarters<br>Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;<br>Thickly down these swelling waters<br>Float his fallen leaves.<br>Through the tall and naked timber,<br>Column-like and old,<br>Gleam the sunsets of November,<br>From their skies of gold.<br>O'er us, to the southland heading,<br>Screams the gray wild-goose;<br>On the night-frost sounds the treading<br>Of the brindled moose.<br>Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping,<br>Frost his task-work plies;<br>Soon, his icy bridges heaping,<br>Shall our log-piles rise.<br>When, with sounds of smothered thunder,<br>On some night of rain,<br>Lake and river break asunder<br>Winter's weakened chain,<br>Down the wild March flood shall bear them<br>To the saw-mill's wheel,<br>Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them<br>With his teeth of steel.<br>Be it starlight, be it moonlight,<br>In these vales below,<br>When the earliest beams of sunlight<br>Streak the mountain's snow,<br>Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early,<br>To our hurrying feet,<br>And the forest echoes clearly<br>All our blows repeat.<br>Where the crystal Ambijejis<br>Stretches broad and clear,<br>And Millnoket's pine-black ridges<br>Hide the browsing deer:<br>Where, through lakes and wide morasses,<br>Or through rocky walls,<br>Swift and strong, Penobscot passes<br>White with foamy falls;<br>Where, through clouds, are glimpses given<br>Of Katahdin's sides, —<br>Rock and forest piled to heaven,<br>Torn and ploughed by slides!<br>Far below, the Indian trapping,<br>In the sunshine warm;<br>Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping<br>Half the peak in storm!<br>Where are mossy carpets better<br>Than the Persian weaves,<br>And than Eastern perfumes sweeter<br>Seem the fading leaves;<br>And a music wild and solemn,<br>From the pine-tree's height,<br>Rolls its vast and sea-like volume<br>On the wind of night;<br>Make we here our camp of winter;<br>And, through sleet and snow,<br>Pitchy knot and beechen splinter<br>On our hearth shall glow.<br>Here, with mirth to lighten duty,<br>We shall lack alone<br>Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty,<br>Childhood's lisping tone.<br>But their hearth is brighter burning<br>For our toil to-day;<br>And the welcome of returning<br>Shall our loss repay,<br>When, like seamen from the waters,<br>From the woods we come,<br>Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters,<br>Angels of our home!<br>Not for us the measured ringing<br>From the village spire,<br>Not for us the Sabbath singing<br>Of the sweet-voiced choir.<br>Ours the old, majestic temple,<br>Where God's brightness shines<br>Down the dome so grand and ample,<br>Propped by lofty pines!<br>Through each branch-enwoven skylight,<br>Speaks He in the breeze,<br>As of old beneath the twilight<br>Of lost Eden's trees!<br>For His ear, the inward feeling<br>Needs no outward tongue;<br>He can see the spirit kneeling<br>While the axe is swung.<br>Heeding truth alone, and turning<br>From the false and dim,<br>Lamp of toil or altar burning<br>Are alike to Him.<br>Strike, then, comrades! Trade is waiting<br>On our rugged toil;<br>Far ships waiting for the freighting<br>Of our woodland spoil!<br>Ships, whose traffic links these highlands,<br>Bleak and cold, of ours,<br>With the citron-planted islands<br>Of a clime of flowers;<br>To our frosts the tribute bringing<br>Of eternal heats;<br>In our lap of winter flinging<br>Tropic fruits and sweets.<br>Cheerly, on the axe of labor,<br>Let the sunbeams dance,<br>Better than the flash of sabre<br>Or the gleam of lance!<br>Strike! With every blow is given<br>Freer sun and sky,<br>And the long-hid earth to heaven<br>Looks, with wondering eye!<br>Loud behind us grow the murmurs<br>Of the age to come;<br>Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers,<br>Bearing harvest home!<br>Here her virgin lap with treasures<br>Shall the green earth fill;<br>Waving wheat and golden maize-ears<br>Crown each beechen hill.<br>Keep who will the city's alleys,<br>Take the smooth-shorn plain;<br>Give to us the cedarn valleys,<br>Rocks and hills of Maine!<br>In our North-land, wild and woody,<br>Let us still have part:<br>Rugged nurse and mother sturdy,<br>Hold us to thy heart!<br>Oh, our free hearts beat the warmer<br>For thy breath of snow;<br>And our tread is all the firmer<br>For thy rocks below.<br>Freedom, hand in hand with labor,<br>Walketh strong and brave;<br>On the forehead of his neighbor<br>No man writeth Slave!<br>Lo, the day breaks! old Katahdin's<br>Pine-trees show its fires,<br>While from these dim forest gardens<br>Rise their blackened spires.<br>Up, my comrades! up and doing!<br>Manhood's rugged play<br>Still renewing, bravely hewing<br>Through the world our way!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Greenleaf+Whittier">John Greenleaf Whittier</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=420735" data-title="The Lumbermen de John Greenleaf Whittier" data-description="WILDLY round our woodland quarters
Sad-voiced Autumn grieves;
Thickly down these swelling waters
Float his fallen leaves.
Through the tall and naked timber,
Column-like and old,
Gleam the sunsets of November,
From their skies of gold.
O'er us, to ..."></div>
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