English poem
The Foreigner
by Francis Sherman (1825–1905)
He walked by me with open eyes, And wondered that I loved it so; Above us stretched the gray, gray skies; Behind us, foot-prints on the snow.
Before us slept a dark, dark wood. Hemlocks were there, and little pines Also; and solemn cedars stood In even and uneven lines.
The branches of each silent tree Bent downward, for the snow's hard weight Was pressing on them heavily; They had not known the sun of late.
(Except when it was afternoon, And then a sickly sun peered in A little while; it vanished soon And then they were as they had been.)
There was no sound (I thought I heard The axe of some man far away) There was no sound of bee, or bird, Or chattering squirrel at its play.
And so he wondered I was glad. --There was one thing he could not see; Beneath the look these dead things had I saw Spring eyes agaze at me.