Let us study how spruces grow old;
The texture of bark, and the rings
In the grain, and the straightness that sings.
I remember how soldiers grew old
Who had slept out four years under trees,
And behold, they had caught in the breeze
A hint—they were stalwart and straight,
Tanned deep as spruce bark in the sun.
A hint? they had caught more than one,
Sleeping out under trees in the cold;
Long branches set off by the stars,
Like their flags—and perhaps a few bars,
In a measure the world had forgot,
Drifted down from the boughs and imbued
Their blood with the surge of the wood.
Let us study how spruces grow old,
And learn, as the balsam runs dry,
To thrust a top limb to the sky.