Anthony Euwer

“ Its roots are twisted holes of pitch that pierce the earth below.
Beyond the burning border of the bracken and the vine,
A ruddy edge is eating through the carpet of the pine,
But the fighters, they will meet it with their paths of upturned soil—
It's many days those little paths have saved in sweat and toil.
A four-league stretch is burning now—the cavalcade of death
Moves on with scarlet torch and blade and with a scarlet breath,
And over all the smoking ridge, the clouds that hang like lead—
Oh, is it any wonder that the moon's a red-hot red! ”

“ She laughs to scorn the human things that try to block her path.
On yonder crest they’ve made their stand—hark to the timber fall,
Again the winds have veered around—the bosses curse and call
Through driving blasts of pitch-pine heat and pitch-pine smoke and smell,
“She’s turned again—hang to your tools—and damn you—run like Hell!”
It takes a canny general whose eye’s a weathervane,
A mighty canny general with seamed and schemy brain,
To meet the gay manoeuvers and the unconventional ways
That a breeze kicks up at noonday in a crown-fire forest blaze. ”

“ Through pine-pillared aisles the thunderings ring,
Echoing canyons answering;
Enter the horses—lashing reins,
Yelling and curses, jangling chains,
Snorting and straining, steaming brutes,
Grappling hooks shackled to stubborn roots,
Snug in their sockets holding fast—
Steadily pulling, they yield at last! ”