Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Little Songs of the Forest

William Griffith

SOFTLY at dawn a whisper stole

Down from the Green House on the Hill,

Enchanting many a ghostly bole

And wood song with the ancient thrill.

Gossiping on the countryside,

Spring and the wandering breezes say

God has thrown heaven open wide

And let the thrushes out today.

The Moon puts on her silver veil

And shawl of lace: and with far lutes

And violins in many a dale

The thrushes blow their woodland flutes.

Oh, and with many a ghostly cheer,

Under the moon the forest heaves

And sways with ecstasy to hear

The eerie laughter of the leaves.

Devoutly worshiping the oak

Wherein the barred owl stares,

The little feathered forest folk

Are praying sleepy prayers:

Praying the summer to be long

And drowsy to the end,

And daily full of sun and song,

That broken hopes may mend.

Praying the golden age to stay

Until the whippoorwill

Appoints a windy moving-day,

And hurries from the hill.

Once more the crimson rumor

Fills the forest and the town;

And the green fires of summer

Are burning—burning down.

Oh, the green fires of summer

Are burning down once more;

And my heart is in the ashes

On the forest floor!

Since yesterday has been no word,

Nor voice of anything

To thrill the forest: and no bird

Has any heart to sing.

Since yesterday has been no track

Of Pan nor any power,

To lure the gypsy summer back,

And fool a single flower.

Gray are the sentry leaves and thinned

That whisper at my cabin door,

Sighing and mourning as the wind

Worries and walks the forest floor.

O leaves, O leaves that find no voice

In the white silence of the snows,

To bid the crimson woods rejoice,

Or wake the wonder of the rose!