The Woods

The woods, the woods, beneath the twilight curves, Their peace was swayed in dusk’s soft weave, An invocation from the whispering swerves, Where the silent dreams take their leave.

Tall trees like stanchions hold the world in sway. Each breath of wind, a minute’s tune, And men find solace with each fading ray, While love moves quiet on the moon.

A trivial thought, with time will fade, Yet golden beams will rest on hearts departing. The tranquil paths compel our steps unmade, And echo soft in dusk’s sweet parting.

• Thomas Wentworth Higginson