On the estate, there was a man on a 24 foot ladder pruning spruce trees with a chain saw, dressed in a bright red shirt and overalls, making loud noise with that saw, but not really disturbing the peace. On another tree, closer to the dirt road where I was walking, a woodpecker, dressed almost the same, drummed on a tall cherry tree, doing his pruning. Robins rustled through the wood along the side of the road. For me, it was perfect. I see why Edna St. Vincent Millay loved her home at Steepletop, and why she was inspired to create such beautiful poetry.
A little past the estate, there was a trail called the “Poetry Trail.” I had passed this on my first five mile journey a couple of weeks ago, but did not take the time to travel it. Today was different, a little warmer, great sun, and time. I headed in. The four feet wide path was a carpet of moss for about three quarters of a mile, soft underfoot, framed with fallen leaves. The canopy above was barren branches of huge deciduous trees (maple, oak, cherry). I would imagine that in the summer, there is little sunlight along this trail, and it would be cool and inviting. I liked the sunlight of the second day of spring, the lack of bugs, the crisp breeze.
There were about 10-12 markers on the trail that had snippets of Millay’s poetry, and that is impressive. There were quotes from her early works. But one struck me- “Elegy before Death” which I present here:
There will be rose and rhododendron
When you are dead and under ground;
Still will be heard from white syringas
Heavy with bees, a sunny sound.
Still will the tamaracks be raining
After the rain has ceased, and still
Will there be robins in the stubble,
Brown sheep upon the warm green hill.
Spring will not fail nor autumn falter;
Nothing will know that you are gone,
Saving alone some sullen plough-land
None but yourself set foot upon;
Saving the may-weed and the pig-weed
Nothing will know that you are dead, ---
These, and perhaps a useless wagon
Standing beside some tumbled shed.
Oh, there will pass with your great passing
Little of beauty not your own, ---
Only the light from common water,
Only the grace from simple stone!
I like this poem. I never paid much attention to it before. Maybe I am getting old. But it is so true. Life goes on; beauty continues; the seasons change; and people continue to enjoy all of it, except for my beauty. Whoa!
It was a great walk. Perhaps the most intriguing part of it was the walk through the woods back to route 22. My friend Bob told me it was a short distance from the end of the trail to the highway. It was an uphill climb to go back, so I launched into the forest with Millay’s poetry on my mind. There was no trail, just woods. After about 30 steps, I realized that I could wander for a long time, and really be lost. I looked around. The poetry trail was no where in sight. I studied the landscape and saw a yellow stripe off in the near distance, and headed towards it. And a truck thundered past, and I knew I was near civilization, and about 2 miles from my house, a great beautiful, relaxing, inspiring 5 mile loop.
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