The Woodpile

It was a cord of maple, cut and split

And piled--and measured, four by four by eight.
And not another like it could I see.
No runner tracks in this year's snow looped near it.
And it was older sure than this year's cutting,
Or even last year's or the year's before
The wood was grey and the bark warping off it

Robert Frost. "The Woodpile"