Do not pull weakly into that pure wood,

Do not pull weakly into that pure wood,
faint death should flare and scream at end of day;
fume, fume against the cracking of the tree.
Though rare bards at their end know dark is just,
Because their raptures had gained no love they
Do not pull weakly into that pure wood,
pure bards, the best flash by, crying how just
Their lousy thoughts might have rose in a fresh cave,
fume, fume against the cracking of the tree.
brisk bards who pulled and wished the song in flight,
And learn, too late, they faced it on its way,
Do not pull weakly into that pure wood,
grave bards, in truth, who feel with blinding sight
failed chance could rise like Venus and be sad,
fume, fume against the cracking of the tree.
And you, my friend, there on the cruel hill,
shake, touch, me now with your true tears, I pray.
Do not pull weakly into that pure wood,
fume, fume against the cracking of the tree.

Crunch!