Fast disappearing emblem of old days
When man first trod the frontier wilderness
Sowing the see which later grew to dress
The axe-cleared land, with miles of sunlit maize.

Along haphazard windings, zig-zag ways,
In April bluebirds flew all azure plumed,
Beside the lowest logs the Blood-root bloomed
Unconscious of the brilliant noontide blaze.

But now the logs lie rotting in the grass
Or feed the fires of chill October eves;
Of former landscapes progress only leaves
A vestige which eventually will pass.
Thus gradually the old-time glamour fades
And fading, dies, as wind through forest glades.