The Poetry Corner

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

By Bliss Carman (William)

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.