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ther hill the sweet heavy breath, the golden 

 dust of tassels. 



When storms sweep all the river's trend, 

 what grumble of thunder, what singing of 

 winds here in these dead, tall ranks ! No 

 more may they bend and rock before it. 

 Stark stiff, they must stand or fall to rise 

 only in new growth. Who knows if they 

 sigh not for some pitiful hurricane to sweep 

 down all their ranks in one sudden mercy 

 of ruin? But no! This Old Guard dies. 

 Never wilfully shall it surrender space and 

 roothold on this our earth. There is brave 

 defiance in each upstanding stem. See how 

 they have stripped them of cumbering bark, 

 and stand in armor of steel against the 

 powers of the air, the gnawing tooth of time. 



A brave fight, truly lost from the be- 

 ginning. Man, the conqueror, is driven of 

 hunger, no less than the lust of land. Year 

 by year the ranks shall thin, the plough 

 speed more unchecked, the woodland spring 

 shrink to a thread, vanish quite away. 

 Wheat shall laugh here unto yellow har- 

 vest, clover bescent the air, grass bourgeon 

 tall, and cattle low all over this, one of the 

 thousand hills. 



And the river shall ripple, ripple boom- 

 ing at spring's flood-tide, laughing low over 



