The Hill Pines Were Sighing

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  The hill pines were sighing,
  O'ercast and chill was the day:
  A mist in the valley lying
  Blotted the pleasant May.

  But deep in the glen's bosom
  Summer slept in the fire
  Of the odorous gorse-blossom
  And the hot scent of the brier.

  A ribald cuckoo clamoured,
  And out of the copse the stroke
  Of the iron axe that hammered
  The iron heart of the oak.

  Anon a sound appalling,
  As a hundred years of pride
  Crashed, in the silence falling;
  And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.

© Robert Seymour Bridges