Forest

You want me to tell you The secret of springtime --

And I relate to that secret Like a high-branching firtree

Whose thousand little fingers Point a thousand little roads.

I will tell you never, my love, Because the river runs slowly

But I shall put into my branching voice The ashy sky of your gaze.

Turn me around, brown child Be careful of my needles.

Turn me around and around, playing At the well pump of love.

The secret of springtime. How I wish I could tell you!