It is still under the pines

It is still under the pines.

Only the winds flow,

Murmuring low, murmuring low,

Through the tops where the unseen sun shines.

It is still below;

Never a bee

Booms over the mat of cones and spines;

It is dark; no flowers blow;

Only afar a harsh pool glints....

The heart beats heavily, sad, and slow,

Seeking in vain for any hints

Of a Nature cares if Man suffer or no.

Vain search! It is so

Dark, so still, so lonely under the pines.