Wood-Folk Lore. To T. B. M.

For every one     Beneath the sun,     Where Autumn walks with quiet eyes,     There is a word,     Just overheard     When hill to purple hill replies.     This afternoon,     As warm as June,     With the red apples on the bough,     I set my ear     To hark and hear     The wood-folk talking, you know how.     There comes a "Hush!"     And then a "Tush,"     As tree to scarlet tree responds,     "Babble away!     He'll not betray     The secrets of us vagabonds.     "Are we not all,     Both great and small,     Cousins and kindred in a joy     No school can teach,     No worldling reach,     Nor any wreck of chance destroy?"     And so we are,     However far     We journey ere the journey ends,     One brotherhood     With leaf and bud     And everything that wakes or wends.     The wind that blows     My autumn rose     Where Grand Pr looks to Blomidon,--     How great must be     The company     Of roses he has leaned upon,     Since first he shed     Their petals red     Through Persian gardens long ago,     When Omar heard     His muttered word     Rumoring things we may not know!     Our brother ghost,     He is a most     Incorrigible wanderer;     And still to-day     He takes his way     About my hills of spruce and fir;     Will neither bide     By the great tide,     In apple lands of Acadie,     Nor in the leaves     About your eaves,     Where Scituate looks out to sea.