Explore "The Fiddling Wood" by Stephen Vincent Benet on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Gods, what a black, fierce day! The clouds were iron, / Wrenched to strange, rugged shapes; the red sun winked / Over the rough crest of the hairy wood / In angry scorn; the grey road twisted, kinked, / Like a sick serpent, seeming to environ / The trees with magic. All the wood was still --
Cracked, crannied pines bent like malicious cripples / Before the gusty wind; they seemed to nose, / Nudge, poke each other, cackling with ill mirth -- / Enchantment's days were over -- sh! -- Suppose / That crouching log there, where the white light stipples / Should -- break its quiet! WAS THAT CRIMSON -- EARTH?