Ah, this peaceful woodland glade,
Full of shadows, full of shade;
Ah, the birds in every bough
Soothe my cares, and smooth my brow.
Then little boys with axes come
And little boys with knives;
Now, all is devastation,
And nothing survives.
Gone are all the birdies wee;
Gone, the trees, heart-rendingly;
Gone, that is, except one sapling
With a noble mission grappling:
Here must he stand, and grow to be
A tree of worthy spunk,
That kids may practice whittle-ry
Upon his ancient trunk!
by Ray Romine Sunday, April 29, 1945
