A FAR COUNTRY
THIS wood is older born than other woods:
The trees are God’s imagining of trees,
Anemones
So pale as these
Have never laughed like children in far solitudes,
Shaking and breaking worldforweary moods
To pure and childish glees.
The dripple from the mossed and plashing beck
Has carven glassy walls of pallid stone,
Where ferns have thrown
Fine silks unsewn,
Faint clouds unskied, that, one enchanted moment, check
And chalice waterdrops. They, silver grown,
With moons the darkness fleck.