An Invitation

You know these wooded acres . . . why not choose Their shade to rest you in? You love the smell Of spring’s first trilliums, could always tell The hour the wood-hare feeds! I may not lose The sure, sweet faith that we shall meet again; For this is certain, you will never find More symmetry in ferns, so spiced a wind. So I shall wait beneath this spruce; and when Your truant feet come lightly down the glade I’ll watch remembrance light your eager eyes At each frail bud, at feathery moss that lies On velvet couch; then forth into the shade Of empyrean pattern-tracings we will roam As thrushes fly, yet deem this wood our home.