Classic Poem

The white mist made the hanger dim,
Else I had never heeded
The spider-webs mist-seeded;
That clinging mist showed me the slim
Shine of each gossamer
That hanging from nowhere hung there,
But hid from sight the sorry wood-cutter.

The preacher stood in his pulpit,
But not one word was heard
By any sort of bird,
Wren, sparrow, linnet, finch or tit;
They sang in the wood's fire,
The smoke that thinned out rising higher
To sky as blue as man's farthest desire.

‘The spring is come that was to come,’
So preached the cuckoo-pint,
But the birds would not stint
Their song that preached the preacher dumb,
Though still that axe rang out
With shout that followed fast on shout;
Whether from axe or tree played with my doubt.