November 1959

The woods will miss his hands; each seedling tree
Scarce started in its struggle for maturity
Will fight alone. The driftwood-scattered shore
Won't offer up its secrets to him any more.
Who now will walk the deer's deep-shaded trail
And tame the tangled grapevine by the swale?

Oh heart, cry not - what need for tears?
He gave us sunshine, spilling down the years,
The bright harvesting of summer's golden yield,
A joyous heritage of forest, lake and field.
The woods will miss his hands - but we
Will find him still in every lonely tree.