Classic Poem

Down between the branches drops a low, soft wind.
Where the narrow trail begins there start I.
Yellow sun and shadow are spinning gold behind,
Long brakes are clutching as my knees brush by.

Hidden glades are pink with the twin linnaea,
Sweet with scented fronds and the warm, wet fern;
Flute the far-off rainbirds sad and clear,
Flash the pigeon blossoms at each sharp turn.

Pungent breathe the balsams by the stream's low banks;
Rotting wood and violets lie side by side;
Glows the scarlet fungus through the alder ranks,
Burning like a light on a still, green tide.

Hilltops bid me linger where the winds run cool;
Hollows hold my feet in the deep, black loam;
But marking purple shadows in the purring pool,
I lift my silent feet on the long trail home.