Fawn

The swift light casts a golden air, Where fern-tinged groves step to the brook, Breathless dancing by where we stare, As in silent trust the fawns once looked.

Each leaf that falls sways in accord, Stitching thoughts like a woven flute, Linking eternity to a day restored, Filling the void so astute.

And so we wander in the woven dream, Chasing the calls where soft dew clings, Finding each hue glimmers, it seems, In the sunlit sighs of nature’s rings.

• John Crowe Ransom