Wood-Folk Lore. To T. B. M

For every oneBeneath the sun,Where Autumn walks with quiet eyes,There is a word,Just overheardWhen hill to purple hill replies.

This afternoon,As warm as June,With the red apples on the bough,I set my earTo hark and hearThe wood-folk talking, you know how.

There comes a "Hush!"And then a "Tush,"As tree to scarlet tree responds,"Babble away!He'll not betrayThe secrets of us vagabonds.

"Are we not all,Both great and small,Cousins and kindred in a joyNo school can teach,No worldling reach,Nor any wreck of chance destroy?"

And so we are,However farWe journey ere the journey ends,One brotherhoodWith leaf and budAnd everything that wakes or wends.

The wind that blowsMy autumn roseWhere Grand Pre looks to Blomidon,--How great must beThe companyOf roses he has leaned upon,

Since first he shedTheir petals redThrough Persian gardens long ago,When Omar heardHis muttered wordRumoring things we may not know!

Our brother ghost,He is a mostIncorrigible wanderer;And still to-dayHe takes his wayAbout my hills of spruce and fir;

Will neither bideBy the great tide,In apple lands of Acadie,Nor in the leavesAbout your eaves,Where Scituate looks out to sea.