Classic Poem

The rocking, ringing steel sings to and fro,
A steady buzz, a whang and rasp and hiss;
The sawdust spurts and makes twin piles below;
Green wood is tough.
The art is chiefly this:
Don't bear too hard, but leave it to the saw,
(Sam holds the other end, and knows the knack);
Pull firmly, but still lightly, on the draw,
But do not push. Your partner takes it back.

Then, when your rhythm's easy, going well,
And back-arm muscles twinge a bit, mayhap,
Swayed in a kind of dogged swoon, you'll smell
That lusty savour of hot sun on sap.
" Well, Sam, your saw, she swings a wicked tooth. " ...
The trunk is through. Sam grins. " You said the truth! "