Man’s Burning Grove
This savage, man-made wood—
Where is the air still good?
To grove our steps once turned,
Yet now the endless trees are burned.
The sky is torn, no thread of blue;
Its ashen light steals life from you.
Swift falls the heart to endless night—
What met their gaze, what stilled their sight?
They loved the winding path they trod,
They saw in nature’s breath, not God—
No stream nor bloom could pass them by
Without a thought, without a sigh.
Each leaf, each stalk, each hedge, each vine—
Held truth, now lit by fires—a crime
That in man-made tomes progress hides,
We turn and burn with mortal pride.
And those who read with God apart
Shall find death written in the heart.

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