Classic Poem

O twenty, running through the wood!
Where friendly leaves and grasses stir,
Where airs are sweet and trees are strong,
And hiding birds call out to her,
And every little timid thing
That creeps within the woods to sing
Seems just to have a voice for her.

O Twenty, running through the wood!
A woman grown, and yet a child!
Now in the sun, now in the shade —
The wild gone out to meet the wild.
And who can say life is not sweet
To eager eyes and fearless feet
To Twenty-old and Seven-wild.

She leaves the quiet road that winds
Its pretty way the whole wood through
And makes a pathway for herself,
As who at Twenty would not do?
Unseen and seen, the wind and she
Go through the bush and round the tree —
Go roving 'round and singing through.

Such pleasure just to lose herself!
O Seven-wild! O Twenty-old!
The shadows stealing from the night
Tread measures strange with gleams of gold.
And Mayflowers lift their faces pink: —
Now who could look at them and think
Of being young or being old?

O Twenty, running through the wood!
Its wildness has a power to still;
The voices low from rock and twig
The silences with music thrill, —
And suddenly she silent grows,
And, searching out the path she knows,
Turns back — but carries home the thrill.