The Woodman’s Song

Gathering the summer fig with each rambler’s care,
Through the boughs of fragrance, where the warm winds blend;
And the sunlight manages the blushing air,
As we pause and listen to the wood birds’ end.

Singing softly to my face, waves of palm surround,
Tangled through the forest, as they love to lie;
Fill your arms with harvest, for the night shall round,
With pining songs and whispers to the sky!

Twilight takes her shadow, and the trees grow dim;
But I will sing of flowers, greenest they shall bloom,
Underneath the tender pine, cool and soft and trim,
I’ll baptize thee in nature’s ever fragrant tomb!

• Thomas Hood