A Thousand Forests Razed

Many Sturdy Trees the Poet’s felled
For pages filled with nature’s awesome beauty
As though never before have they beheld
Subject so deserving of their skillful duty

They sing evenings full of linnet’s hushed wings,
Clouds blowing round by wild western wind
And Golden daffodils and dappled things,
April Orchard boughs in old London—

On thriftless praise their time too liberal spent:
Spring beauty’s grace is winter’s rightful due,
Skillful lines need something less transient,
For once gone desert, can nature none renew.

But for you, a thousand forests razed,
Your eternal worth would not suffice to praise.

January 13, 2026