Here you will find thePoemThe Hill Pines Were Sighingof poet Robert Seymour Bridges
The hill pines were sighing, O'ercast and chill was the day: A mist in the valley lying Blotted the pleasant May. But deep in the glen's bosom Summer slept in the fire Of the odorous gorse-blossom And the hot scent of the brier. A ribald cuckoo clamoured, And out of the copse the stroke Of the iron axe that hammered The iron heart of the oak. Anon a sound appalling, As a hundred years of pride Crashed, in the silence falling; And the shadowy pine-trees sighed.
