Newspapers 



THEY sent my forest to a paper mill, 

 My forest, lifted solemnly and still 

 For skies to brood and morning sun to kiss, 

 Now torn to pulp and flattened into this 

 This endless mass of paper, smudged with ink, 

 And flung abroad to men that will not think. 



Instead of sweet green leaves, this dingy white; 

 Instead of bird songs and the pure delight 

 Of sturdy trunk and loving shadowy bough, 

 The berry glints, the asters nothing now 

 But crumpled pages whirled beneath a train, 

 Or sodden in a gutter by the rain. 



Ah, when, thou monstrous Press, thou mighty force, 

 When wilt thou bear thee worthy of thy source? 

 When, in the glad remembrance of the wood, 

 Wilt thou be soundly sweet and staunchly good, 

 Fragrant and pure and masterfully free, 

 And calmly strong as thine our parent tree? 



Amos R. Wells, in Harper's Weekly. 



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