The Woods.

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.     I love the woods when autumnal fires         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 navet.     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.     Alas for lost freedom! Alas for me!         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.