He heard the woodman's fateful strokes
In Epping Thicket, blow on blow,
Where spaciously the loftiest oaks
In all the forest precincts grow.
The rose, the bramble and the sloe
Muffled the holly, hid the thorn ;
And berries blushed with diverse glow
Of gradual colour like the morn,
Whose changing hues the ravished east adorn.
In many a dome of russet green.
Without a centre shaft to draw
The branches round it, might be seen.
Once more with tender-hearted awe,
The burning bush religion saw —
The nightshade's coral hanging free,
The scarlet hip, the crimson haw,
The swarthy bramble lovingly
Enwreathed as in a myriad-minded tree.
The bramble leaves, with iron mould
Distained, like metal foliage glanced;
The fluted beech, in ruddy gold
Accoutred bravely, countenanced
The yellow thorn, whose hue enhanced
In turn the heather's rusty ore;
The bracken, faded all, advanced
Along the forest's pillared floor —
A tawny tide upon an emerald shore.
But eager frosts that braise and brand
Autumnal foliage still delayed ;
Green was the forest, green the land,
A fibrous sward, a toothsome blade:
The cow-bells rang in every glade
Their quaint memorial refrain,
A ghostly sound by change unlaid ;
The year stood still; and summer, fain
As in her prime, usurped the world again.
[Extract]
This is another extract from Davidson's poem about Liverpool Street Station.
Poetry Atlas has other poems about Essex.