My window looks upon a wood That stands as tangled as it stood When God was centuries too young To care how right he worked, or wrong, His patterns in obedient trees, Unprofited by the centuries He still plants on as crazily As in his drivelling infancy. Poor little elms beneath the oak! They thrash their arms around and poke At tyrant throats, and try to stand Straight up, like owners of the land; For they expect the vainest things, And even the boniest have their flings. Hickory shoots unnumbered rise, Sallow and wasting themselves in sighs, Children begot at a criminal rate In the sight of a God that is profligate. The oak-trees tower over all, They seem to rise above the brawl, They seem--but just observe the hoax, They are obscured by other oaks! They laugh the weaklings out of mind, And fight forever with their kind. For oaks are spindling too, and bent, And only strong by accident; And if there is a single tree Of half the size it ought to be, It need not give him thanks for that, He did not plan its habitat. When tree-tops go to pushing so, There's every evil thing below; There's clammy fungus everywhere, And poison waving on the air, A plague of insects from the pool To sting some ever-trusting fool, Serpents issuing from the foot Of oak-trees rotten at the root, Owls and frogs and whippoorwills, Cackling of all sorts of ills. Imagine what a pretty thing The slightest landscape-gardening Had made of God's neglected wood! I'm glad man has the hardihood To tamper with creation's plan And shape it worthier of man. Imagine woods and sun-swept spaces, Shadows and lights in proper places, Trees just touching friendly-wise, Bees and flowers and butterflies. An easy thing to improve on God, Simply the knowing of even from odd, Simply to count and then dispose In patterns everybody knows, Simply to follow curve and line In geometrical design. Gardeners only cut their trees For nobler regularities. But from my window I have seen The noblest patch of quivering green Lashed till it never quivered again. God had a fit of temper then, And spat shrill wind and lightning out At twinges of some godly gout. But as for me, I keep indoors Whenever he starts his awful roars. What can one hope of a crazy God But lashings from an aimless rod?