And the sunlight sifts between
Layers of leaves, in the roof o’erhead,
With never a glimpse of sky;
Where the trillium’s cup is the wild bee’s bed—
No one but Cherry and I.
No one knows where the oriole’s nest
Swings by a silvery thread,
Backward and forth by the wild grape pressed,
That drops from the boughs o’erhead.
Where we find the first wild strawberry,