Classic Poem

This hour that I have loved so was silver and green and brown —
A listening hour in the pine-woods where I have learned so much.
Soft through the tufted branches the dim rain sifted down,
Tipping with rayless jewels the low plumes I could touch.

I wish I could write a poem that was tall and straight as a pine:
I wish it could say to someone what the pine-trees say to me.
I think their way of talking would be no better than mine
If I were as sure and simple and quiet as a tree.