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.