The fire advances along the log

      Of the tree we felled,

Which bloomed and bore striped apples by the peck

   Till its last hour of bearing knelled.

   The fork that first my hand would reach

      And then my foot

In climbings upward inch by inch, lies now

   Sawn, sapless, darkening with soot.

   Where the bark chars is where, one year,

      It was pruned, and bled—

Then overgrew the wound.  But now, at last,

   Its growings all have stagnated.

   My fellow-climber rises dim

      From her chilly grave—

Just as she was, her foot near mine on the bending limb,

   Laughing, her young brown hand awave.

December 1915.