The Wood-Pile

Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey day
  I paused and said, "I will turn back from here.
  No, I will go on farther—and we shall see."
  The hard snow held me, save where now and then
  One foot went down. The view was all in lines
  Straight up and down of tall slim trees
  Too much alike to mark or name a place by
  So as to say for certain I was here
  Or somewhere else: I was just far from home.
 A small bird flew before me. He was careful
 To put a tree between us when he lighted,
 And say no word to tell me who he was
 Who was so foolish as to think what he thought.
 He thought that I was after him for a feather—
 The white one in his tail; like one who takes
 Everything said as personal to himself.
 One flight out sideways would have undeceived him.
 And then there was a pile of wood for which
 I forgot him and let his little fear
 Carry him off the way I might have gone,
 Without so much as wishing him good-night.
 He went behind it to make his last stand.
 It was a cord of maple, cut and split
 And piled—and measured, four by four by eight.
 And not another like it could I see.
 No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
 And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
 Or even last year's or the year's before.
 The wood was grey and the bark warping off it
 And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
 Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
 What held it though on one side was a tree
 Still growing, and on one a stake and prop,
 These latter about to fall. I thought that only
 Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
 Could so forget his handiwork on which
 He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
 And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
 To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
 With the slow smokeless burning of decay.