THE DOUGLAS FIR
By crowding upward toward the light
Day and night,
We lift (the lifting never stops)
Our panoply of towering tops.
We are all height and gloom;
We have no room,
No place
For our own brothers in the race
For light; if they can not keep pace
With us, nor reach as high,
They die!
Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain,
Thus we maintain
Our creed, which is to rise
In unspoiled beauty toward the skies—
We make no compromise!
Across the fire-swept areas our seeds
Are blown, to drop among the weeds.
A little while they lie
And germinate, and by and by
WE spring—a sapling here—and there—
And everywhere,
Elbowing in
Through chinkapin
And rhododendrons and the crush
Of maple brush;
Before we know,
We’ve grown into a forest, while below
We glimpse the copse
And see the tops
Of things
That have become our underlings.
There are no thicker stands
Than ours, in all the Northwest lands—
By grace of rivalry we grow so straight,
And thrive and dominate.
Our lancet-stems are clean like stalks of grain,
Thus we maintain
Our creed, which is to rise
In unspoiled beauty toward the skies.