Classic Poem

In thronged procession gliding slow
The great logs sullenly seaward go.

A blind and blundering multitude
They jostle on the swollen flood,

Nor guess the inevitable fate
To greet them at the river-gate

When noiseless hours have lured them down
To the wide booms, the busy town,

The mills, the chains, the screeching jaws
Of the eviscerating saws.

Here in the murmur of the stream
Slow journeying, perchance they dream,

And hear once more their branches sigh
Far up the solitary sky,

Once more the rain-wind softly moan
Where sways the high green top alone,

Once more the inland eagle call
From the white crag that broods o'er all.

But if, beside some meadowy brink
Where flowering willows lean to drink,

Some open beach at the river bend
Where shallows in the sun extend,

They for a little would delay,
The huge tide hurries them away.