WHEREVER he walks, it will be through this forest,
Shadow and leaves forever under his feet;
He will always hear the sighing of hemlocks chorused
Deep in the windy reaches of the street.
He will recall how poplar branches trembled,
How raindrops clung to a birch’s raveled bark;
He will remember a bat’s flight, unassembled,
Like thin, cold flurries of wind in the rising dark.
He will always see the fox as it left the shadow
Eager and still, with the eyes of a curious child;
He will hear the wind blow hard on the pine-locked meadow
Where ledges stood, and grapevines clambered wild.
Always, for him, the deer will come from hiding
Wary and light as a leaf on the forest run;
He will forever recall the partridge gliding,
Or strutting a dry-leafed gully in splendid sun.
And these will persist: the fugitive dream he started
Clings to his eyes like dusk, like a dim green hood.
Now he will walk forever, his pathway charted;
Wherever he walks, it will be through this wood.