The Wood

Witch-hazel, dogwood, and the maple here; And there the oak and hickory; Linn, poplar, and the beech-tree, far and near As the eased eye can see.

Wild-ginger; wahoo, with its flat balloons; And brakes of briers of a twilight green; And fox-grapes plumed with summer; and strung moons Of mandrake flowers between.

Deep gold-green ferns, and mosses green and gray,-- Mats for what naked myth’s white feet?-- And, cool and calm, a cascade far away With ever-even beat.

Old logs, made sweet with death; rough bits of bark; And tangled twig and knotted root; And sunshine splashes and great pools of dark; And many a wild-bird’s flute.

Here let me sit until the Indian, Dusk, With copper-colored face, comes down; Sowing the wildwood with star-fire and musk, And shadows blue and brown.

Then side by side with some magician Dream, I’ll take the owlet-haunted lane,-- Half-roofed with vines,--led by a firefly gleam, That brings me home again.