Twas on the inner bark, stripped from the pine, Our father pencilled this epistle rare; Two blazing pine knots did his torches shine, Two braided pallets formed his desk and chair. DurfeeWhat-Cheer. Canto II.
Like two cathedral towers these stately pines Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones; The arch beneath them is not built with stones, Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines, And carved this graceful arabasque of vines; No organ but the wind here sighs and moans, No sepulchre conceals a martyrs bones, No marble bishop on his tomb reclines. Enter! the pavement, carpeted with leaves, Gives back a softened echo to thy tread! Listen! the choir is singing; all the birds, In leafy galleries beneath the eaves, Are singing! listen, ere the sound be fled, And learn there may be worship without words. LongfellowSonnets. My Cathedral.