WOODCRAFT.
THE poet slept. His fingers twine
In his wife’s hair. He dreams. Divine
His dream! Nay then, I’ll tell you it.
He wandered in a forest dim.
A woodcutter encountered him
Where a felled oak required his wit.
This man with a light axe did lop
The little branches at the top.
Then said the poet: ‘‘ Thus why tax
Your force? This double-handed axe
Were better laid to the tree-trunk.”
** Friend, are you natural, or drunk?”
Replied the woodsman; ‘leaf and twig
Divert the impact of the big
Axe; chop them first, the trunk is fit
For a fair aim, a certain hit,
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