Through the wild woods of the soul, The scented breezes play their game, With every crest that brews and rolls, Despite the footsteps left in flame. And by the river’s shores we’ll mark, Of nature’s fire, the ancient ark,
- Dylan Thomas
Through the wild woods of the soul, The scented breezes play their game, With every crest that brews and rolls, Despite the footsteps left in flame. And by the river’s shores we’ll mark, Of nature’s fire, the ancient ark,