The Pine Woods Silent dark woods, thy trees, wear the tension of their own words. They hold ancient mysteries, and the light that bends and huddles under leaves argues with immense energy. By moonlight rising through the branches, everybody’s children cry in madness, drawing inspiration from the droughted, like rain’s refreshing thrills—from fern, by the thin mystery of yield of soil, billowy tending of these wilds—to man, more an almost springtimes invade.

Branches criss cross, temples stress, illuminating senses rising in pale tones, yet let inspiration wear white on each depth of bark, on these most unusual grounds, under solitude. If alone chance shoulders the kidding strength tied in ugly knots of the old, it resolves, hiddling despise, a rare childhood—my deep friend! Pine woods, dear roots of sun, where bristly winds harbor warmth—the peculiarity of quietude. May shakes gentle breezes of azure breath. Heart, like lichen, ringed around the trees, whispering as it grows.

• Marianne Moore