The Ancient Wood is white and still,
Over the pines the bleak wind blows,
Voiceless the brook and mute the rill,
Silence too where the river flows.
Still I catch the scent of the rose
And hear the white-throat’s roundelay,
Footing the trail that Memory knows,
Over the hills and far away.
I have only a pipe to fill:
Weaving, wreathing rings disclose
A trail that flings straight up the hill,
Straight as an arrow’s flight. For those
Who fare by night the pole star glows
Above the mountain top. By day
A blasted pine the pathway shows
Over the hills and far away.
The Ancient Wood is white and chill,
But what know I of wintry woes?
The Pipesmoke Trail is mine at will—
Naught may hinder and none oppose.
Such the power the pipe bestows,
When the wilderness calls I may
Tramping go, as I smoke and doze,
Over the hills and far away.
Deep in the canyons lie the snows:
They shall vanish if I but say—
If my fancy a-roving goes
Over the hills and far away.
POST-VACATIONAL
You have heard that mildewed story,
That tradition horned and hoary,
That it wearies one to roam,
Past a doubt;
That one vainly on vacation
Tries to find recuperation,
Till he hunts his happy home
Tuckered out.
That abroad there is no comfort,
That a man must journey home for ’t—
You have heard that whiskered wheeze,
Have you not?
’Tis a commonplace to cavil
At the “luxuries of travel,”
For in travel lack of ease
Is your lot.