I was born in the pleasant wood; (Thus commenced the helve, Not rough and fierce and hateful Like the iron, but modest and mild) I was born in the pleasant wood; I was an arm of the sturdy oak; And I bore a wealth of green leaves In the long bright summer days, Where the sunlight loved to sparkle and the rain-drops loved to hum— And I bent a green roof o’er the nest of the merry bird. Oh, I was happy! I danced in the liquid wind, And murmured my joy at all times; In the golden dawn, and sunny noontide; In the crimson evening and beneath the seraphic moon; Yea, I was happy! The oak loved me; for I was his sturdiest arm, And I bore my leaves like an emerald shield. Oh, I was happy! But my time came. The woodman saw me, and he looked at the handle of his axe— The woodman saw me, and grasped the handle of his axe— The woodman saw me, and before I could shrink behind my emerald shield, Ay, even before I could call upon my father oak To bend his green plume and protect his son, I was crashing on the earth— Oh! I fell headlong to the moss, and I lay without motion, As the woodman, As the whistling woodman, As the free and careless woodman, Rent from me my emerald shield, and made me bare As a bird just emerged from its shell. And then he shaped me into a thick stick, A thick white stick, with his wood-knife, And carried me to the village store, And bargained me off, me, the strong arm of the oak, That wore an emerald shield, and made arrows of all the beams, And flashed and murmured at dawn, in the red eve, And beneath the seraphic moon; Yes, me, did that careless woodman Bargain for a keg of apple-sauce, The mean, sneaking villain! That pitiful woodman! And here the helve sang out keen and shrill like the sap When it shrieks in its prison for help, As the red flame enters its chamber. (But again murmured the helve.) There in that paltry village store, Amidst onions, and turnips, and tape, There did I rest in my dusky nook, Whilst the smooth-faced shopman smirked and smiled, With “yes marm!” and “no marm!” “did you say calico! Calico or tape! Joe, measure a yard of tape!” Good heavens! even the blood of my father the oak Began to boil in me. But as for the axe, Oh, how he showed his keen, clear, flashing teeth, As if he would bite into the heart of that shopman, That shopman, so smooth-faced and smirk, So smiling, so smooth-faced and smirk, With his “yes marm” and “no marm!” “did you say Calico or Tape? Joe, measure a yard of tape!” At length an honest settler Came in from his hill-meadows And spoke for an axe. I was dragged from my corner, And the iron was released from his thraldom, And the sharp knife of the honest settler, As the sundown turned his hill-meadows into golden velvet, Shaved me down and shaped me, Smooth and white, and then married me to my husband the iron, The iron, with his purple head, And his keen, clear, flashing teeth. Since then have we dwelt together, Me and my husband the iron, In the hut of the honest settler. The helve ceased. And then a blended song In which rang the clear treble of the helve And the gruff notes of the iron Swelled on my ear. But at length the settler harnessed his oxen, And bent a canvas tent over his wagon, His wagon, broad-wheeled and wide, And filling it with his household wealth, And casting us, married as we were, On his brawny shoulder, Started on his journey. Oh! long was our way through the forest; The broad-wheeled wagon crushed the violets in its path, The purple, fragrant violets looking with their blue eyes From the knotted feet of the pine-tree— Oh, how the pine-tree shook! Oh, how the pine-tree roared! As the violets, that looked with their blue eyes From his knotted feet, Screamed in their purple blood underneath the broad-wheeled wagon, And the red strawberries, with their pouting lips, Oh! how they splashed with their sweet blood The broad wheels Of the ruthless wagon. In vain did the laurel hang Its magnificent bouquet of pink and pearl Over that broad-wheeled wagon! In vain did the loftier dog-wood Arch his blossoms of creamy silver, Both forming a triumphal arch, Worthy a Roman general in his most glorious days, Over that broad-wheeled wagon. On did the wagon plough, Staying for nothing, and crushing still, Oh, that broad-wheeled wagon! The huddling violets with their blue eyes, And the red strawberries with their ripe pouting lips, Letting their sweet blood flow Till the green velvet of the grass blushed like a sunset cloud. And so we journeyed on, Resting upon the brawny shoulder Of the honest settler. At sunset he made us work, And we bit into the trees, And formed his night-bower in the forest.