Classic Poem

And what a charm is in the rich hot scent
Of old fir forests heated by the sun,
Where drops of resin down the rough bark run,
And needle litter breathes its wonderment.

The old fir forests heated by the sun,
Their thought shall linger like the lingering scent,
Their beauty haunt us, and a wonderment
Of moss, of fern, of cones, of rills that run.

The needle litter breathes a wonderment;
The crimson crans are sparkling in the sun;
From tree to tree the scampering squirrels run;
The hum of insects blends with heat and scent.

The drops of resin down the rough bark run;
And riper, ever riper, grows the scent;
But eve has come, to end the wonderment,
And slowly up the tree trunk climbs the sun.