  I love the woods when the magic hand Of Spring, as if sweeping the keys Of a wornout instrument, touches the earth; When beauty and song in the gladness of birth Awaken the heart of the desolate land, And carol its rapture to every breeze. In summer's still solstice my steps are drawn To the shade of the forest trees; To revel with Pan in his secret haunts, To pipe mazourkas while satyrs dance, Or lull to soft slumber some favorite faun And fascinate strange wild birds and bees. Are kindled on every hill; When dead leaves rustle in grove and field, And trees are known by the fruits they yield, And the wild grapes, sweetened by frost, inspire A mildly-desperate, bibulous thrill. There's a joy for which I would fling to the air My petty portion of wealth and fame, In tracking the rabbit o'er fresh-fallen snow, The ways of the 'coon and opossum to know, To capture squirrels when branches are bare As the cupboard shelf of that ancient dame. Oh, I long to explore the woods again In my own aboriginal way, As before I knew how culture could frown On a hoydenish gait and a homespun gown Or dreamed that the strata of proud "upper-ten" Would smile at rusticity's naÏvetÉ. I sigh for the pleasures of long ago In youth's sweet halcyon time; When better beloved than the thoroughfare By multitudes trod were the woodlands, where Was never a path that I did not know, Nor thrifty sapling I dared not climb. For oh, Society's lip would curl, Propriety's self with scornful eye And gilt-edged Fashion would pass me by To know that sometimes I'm dying to be The romp, the rover, the same old girl. |
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