North Country, filled with gesturing wood, br With trees that fence, like archers' volleys, br The flanks of hidden valleys br Where nothing's left to hide br br But verticals and perpendiculars, br Like rain gone wooden, fixed in falling, br Or fingers blindly feeling br For what nobody cares; br br Or trunks of pewter, bangled by greedy death, br Stuck with black staghorns, quietly sucking, br And trees whose boughs go seeking, br And tress like broken teeth br br With smoky antlers broken in the sky; br Or trunks that lie grotesquely rigid, br Like bodies blank and wretched br After a fool's battue, br br As if they've secret ways of dying here br And secret places for their anguish br When boughs at last relinquish br Their clench of blowing air br br But this gaunt country, filled with mills and saws, br With butter-works and railway-stations br And public institutions, br And scornful rumps of cows, br br North Country, filled with gesturing wood– br Timber's the end it gives to branches, br Cut off in cubic inches, br Dripping red with blood.