In “Driftwood,” the speaker is the wood itself, remembering what life has given it. First it was a living tree, secure in its roots and quietly beautiful. Then it became part of a brave ship, standing strong under sails and voyages. Later it was broken, flung through storms, lost in mist and foam, and finally washed back to shore. Now love has set it on fire, and the speaker feels strange to watch that old grace and strength burn away into smoke and memory. But the greatest strangeness is that the bitterness from all that suffering does not disappear—it rises out of the wood as color after color. The mood is reflective, wistful, and quietly awestruck. Pain is not erased; it is transformed into something vivid and alive.
Driftwood — Summary
Life gave me these — The beauty that can only branch in trees Who are content, knowing the roots' securities — The strength to stand up straight and bear the wings Of a brave ship on her adventurings — The bitterness of being broken, being tossed And driven on the waters and the winds, and lost In desolation, mist and stinging foam, And being beaten back at last to home.
Now love has kindled me — Strange that my beauty of a dear, green tree Should vanish into smoke and memory. Strange that the strength, magnificently mine. Should fall before the flame without a sign. But oh most strange that bitterness should be Drawn up in color after color out of me.