There was an old stump of an old tree standing

All naked of bark, and brown, and ten feet tall

In the wrong place for our summer pleasure.

I pushed it over. I was glad to see it fall.

Let it lie there in the high grass till it rotted.

The roots broke when I rocked it where it stood,

The trunk split, and the shell in half-round pieces

Opened, and let fall something that had been wood.

But there were bees in it. Bees have a business

Not safely suddenly outraged by anything.

Nothing is left to an old man but his anger,

And I had hurried death that needs no hurrying.

The stump gone, we could look further and greener.

It was two June days before my wound was well.

That was all we got, and we had the spoiled honey

For sorrow, and a new view past where the tree fell.