John Esten Cooke (1830–1886)

OLD wood to burn!—hew down the highest trunk

On Alleghanian ridges, seen afar—

A monarch crowned with his imperial star—

Against the crimson where the sun has sunk.

The sharp axe glittering in his kingly heart

Sends echo ringing through the golden woods,—

And then a crashing fall!—like bursting floods

When roar the surges, and great mountains part!

The dim year wanes; I see an in-door sight,—

Bright faces gathered round a blazing fire

At Yule or Pentecost when, rising higher,

The frolic-mirth draws gladness from the light

Of that old oak that towering once so vast

Laughed at the storm, and whistled at the blast!