A Ballade Of Wool-Gathering

Now is my season of unrest, Now calls the forest, day and night; And by its pleasant spell obsessed, My wits go soaring like a kite. Forgive me if I be not bright, And pardon if I seem distrait; Wood-fancies put my wits to flight;-- The woods are but a week away.

Palleth upon my soul the jest, Falleth upon my pen a blight. The daily task has lost its zest, And everything is flat and trite. There's nothing humorous in sight; Don't mind if I am dull to-day. For every column is a fight When woods are but a week away.

Woods in the robes of summer dressed-- In greens and grays and browns bedight! A journey on a river's breast, Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!... This end the Voyage of Delight Waits, in a little wood-bound bay, A bark canoe, all trim and tight;-- The woods are but a week away!

L'Envoi

Dear Reader, there is much to write; I've many weighty things to say. But who can write when woods invite, And woods are but a week away!