 | Poems |  |
74
THE WOODPECKER.
A busy woodpecker! What would you call
This monk of a fellow, tapping a tree
With little cells like a catacombed hall,
To bury his acorns in—what would you call
Such a curious monk as he?
This monk of a fellow, tapping a tree
With little cells like a catacombed hall,
To bury his acorns in—what would you call
Such a curious monk as he?
Tucking his acorns away in their tomb
To feed upon, by and by, at his will—
Does he ever think of the hidden bloom
In the acorn's heart? Though shut in a tomb
There is life cherished there still.
To feed upon, by and by, at his will—
Does he ever think of the hidden bloom
In the acorn's heart? Though shut in a tomb
There is life cherished there still.
Time is a woodpecker, crowding the cells
Of the catacombed earth with holy dead;
But there 's a bud of life that swells
In the oak tree's might and it shatters the cells
As the soul when the life has fled.
Of the catacombed earth with holy dead;
But there 's a bud of life that swells
In the oak tree's might and it shatters the cells
As the soul when the life has fled.
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