Cut It Down

By a dim road, o'ergrown with dry thin grass,
A little straggling, wild, wind-beaten tree
Stood, like a sentry, where no feet might pass,
And storm-swept by the sea.
What was the secret of that lonely place?
Had some accursed thing gone by this way.
Leaving the horror of his evil face
On leaf and bough and spray?

I know not. But the very sunbeams took
The darkness of the gnarled and twisted stem;
The summer air those wrinkled leaves forsook
Nor ever played in them.