Classic Poem

For fifty years I've known a woodland
Of patriarchal trees,
Their roots grown deep in good land,
Boughs swaying in the breeze.

Fifty years I've seen the trees greening
In the early spring,
Oaks, elms, and beeches — far out leaning,
To catch the rays the sun should bring.

When first this land was settled here,
The early pioneers
Made their roadways along the foothills,
Saved the levels for their grain fields.

The new road that is being made
Takes the woodland shade;
Uproots the monarchs of the woodland,
Runs across the farmer's good land;
Not any more along the foothills
But cuts in twain the farmer's grain fields.