Classic Poem

He walks still upright from the root,
Meas'ring the timber with his foot;
And all the way, to keep it clean,
Doth from the bark the wood-moths glean,
He, with his beak, examines well
Which fit to stand and which to fell.
The good he numbers up, and hacks,
As if he mark'd them with the axe.
But where he tinkling with his beak,
Does find the hollow oak to speak,
That for his building he designs,
And through the tainted side he mines . . .