Before they planted the trees. It is underneath the coppice and heath, Only the keeper sees That, where the ring-dove broods, And the badgers roll at ease, There was once a road through the woods. Yet, if you enter the woods Of a summer evening late, When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools Where the otter whistles his mate, (They fear not men in the woods, Because they see so few), You will hear the beat of a horse's feet, And the swish of a skirt in the dew, Steadily cantering through The misty solitudes, As though they perfectly knew The old lost road through the woods But there is no road through the woods! -Rudyard Kipling TO THE EVENING WIND Spirit that breathest through my lattice, thou Roughening their crests, and scattering high their spray, And swelling the white sail. I welcome thee To the scorched land, thou wanderer of the sea! Nor I alone - a thousand bosoms round Inhale thee in the fulness of delight; Go, rock the little wood-bird in his nest, Curl the still waters, bright with stars, and rouse Summoning from the innumerable boughs sweep the The faint old man shall lean his silver head grass. His temples, while his breathing grows more deep; And softly part his curtains to allow Go- but the circle of eternal change, Which is the life of nature, shall restore, Sweet odors in the sea-air, sweet and strange, TO A WATERFOWL Whither, 'midst falling dew, While glow the heavens with the last steps of day, Vainly the fowler's eye Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, Thy figure floats along. Seek'st thou the plashy brink There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, Lone wandering, but not lost. All day thy wings have fanned At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere, And soon that toil shall end; Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest, Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart He who, from zone to zone, Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone, Will lead my steps aright. William Cullen Bryant CROSSING THE BAR Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face, When I have crost the bar. "As the Spirits of Darkness be stronger in the dark, so Good Spirits which be Angels of Light are augmented not only by the Divine light of the Sun, but also by our common VVood Fire: and as the Celestial Fire drives away dark spirits, so also this our Fire of VVood doth the same." Cor. Agrippa, OCCULT PHILOSOPHY, Book I. ch. v. "Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, In a tumultuous privacy of storm." The sun that brief December day |