“Up here the schooners used to come
For timber, years ago,
See yet,” he said, “how straight and tall
The stripling forests grow.”
It was a place where shadowed hills
Oppressed the timid stream,
So leafy-still the ocean’s roar
Was drowsier than a dream.
Birds chimed beside the sagging wharf
That had no pride or care
Now that the white wings from the sea
No longer came up there.
And all about the forest trooped
And mountains bent their brows,
And there I saw the schooner lie
With the salt upon her bows.
A ghost, a water-lily ship,
(I would not swear it true)
Dreaming at anchor in the trees:
And then it was I knew
That even a ship’s rough timbers yearn
At times to the woods they sprung in,
To the keen green banks and the saplinged ranks
They knew once, and were young in.