<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=429745" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>North Country</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">North Country, filled with gesturing wood, <br>With trees that fence, like archers' volleys, <br>The flanks of hidden valleys <br>Where nothing's left to hide </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But verticals and perpendiculars, <br>Like rain gone wooden, fixed in falling, <br>Or fingers blindly feeling <br>For what nobody cares; </div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or trunks of pewter, bangled by greedy death, <br>Stuck with black staghorns, quietly sucking, <br>And trees whose boughs go seeking, <br>And tress like broken teeth </div><div style="margin:10px 0">With smoky antlers broken in the sky; <br>Or trunks that lie grotesquely rigid, <br>Like bodies blank and wretched <br>After a fool's battue, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">As if they've secret ways of dying here <br>And secret places for their anguish <br>When boughs at last relinquish <br>Their clench of blowing air </div><div style="margin:10px 0">But this gaunt country, filled with mills and saws, <br>With butter-works and railway-stations <br>And public institutions, <br>And scornful rumps of cows, </div><div style="margin:10px 0">North Country, filled with gesturing wood– <br>Timber's the end it gives to branches, <br>Cut off in cubic inches, <br>Dripping red with blood. <br></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Kenneth+Slessor">Kenneth Slessor</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <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=429745" data-title="North Country de Kenneth Slessor" data-description="North Country, filled with gesturing wood, With trees that fence, like archers' volleys, The flanks of hidden valleys Where nothing's left to hide But verticals and perpendiculars, Like rain gone wooden, fixed in falling, Or fingers blindly..."></div> </div> </div>

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