On a grey day, a man walks alone in a frozen swamp, half-deciding whether to turn back or go farther. The tall, identical trees disorient him, and he feels simply far from home. A small bird darts ahead, hiding behind trunks as though afraid the speaker wants its white tail feather; the speaker lets the bird’s small fear carry it away. Then he finds an abandoned wood-pile of maple, cut, split, and measured, but older than this year or last. The wood is grey and warping, wrapped in clematis, barely propped by a tree and a stake. He imagines someone who moved on to fresh tasks and forgot this careful labor. Now the pile warms nothing but the swamp, slowly decaying. The mood is quiet, wintry, and meditative—loneliness and human effort fading into the cold.
The Wood-Pile — Summary
Out walking in the frozen swamp one grey day, I paused and said, ‘I will turn back from here. No, I will go on farther--and we shall see.’ The hard snow held me, save where now and then One foot went through. The view was all in lines Straight up and down of tall slim trees Too much alike to mark or name a place by So as to say for certain I was here Or somewhere else: I was just far from home. A small bird flew before me. He was careful To put a tree between us when he lighted, And say no word to tell me who he was Who was so foolish as to think what he thought. He thought that I was after him for a feather-- The white one in his tail; like one who takes Everything said as personal to himself. One flight out sideways would have undeceived him. And then there was a pile of wood for which I forgot him and let his little fear Carry him off the way I might have gone, Without so much as wishing him good-night. He went behind it to make his last stand. It was a cord of maple, cut and split And piled--and measured, four by four by eight. And not another like it could I see. No runner tracks in this year’s snow looped near it. And it was older sure than this year’s cutting, Or even last year’s or the year’s before. The wood was grey and the bark warping off it And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle. What held it though on one side was a tree Still growing, and on one a stake and prop, These latter about to fall. I thought that only Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks Could so forget his handiwork on which He spent himself, the labour of his axe, And leave it there far from a useful fireplace To warm the frozen swamp as best it could With the slow smokeless burning of decay.