It is still under the pines. 
Only the winds flow, 
Murmuring low, murmuring low, 
Through the tops where the unseen sun shines. 
It is still below; 
Never a bee 
Booms over the mat of cones and spines ; 
It is dark; no flowers blow; 
Only afar a harsh pool glints. . . . 
The heart beats heavily, sad, and slow, 
Seeking in vain for any hints 
Of a Nature cares if Man suffer or no. 
Vain search ! It is so 
Dark, so still, so lonely under the pines.