Forest 



the eye there is nothing but beauty; to the imagina- 

 tion pleasant pageants of old time; to the ear the 

 soothing cadence of the leaves as the gentle breeze 

 goes over. The beeches rear their Gothic architecture, 

 the oaks are planted firm like castles, unassailable. 

 Quick squirrels climb and dart hither and thither, 

 deer cross the distant glade, and, occasionally, a 

 hawk passes like thought. 



The something that may be in the shadow or the 

 thicket, the vain, pleasant chase that beckons us on, 

 still leads the footsteps from tree to tree, till by-and- 

 by a lark sings, and, going to look for it, we find the 

 stubble outside the forest stubble still bright with 

 the blue and white flowers of grey speedwell. One 

 of the earliest to bloom in the spring, it continues 

 till the plough comes again in autumn. Now looking 

 back from the open stubble on the high wall of trees, 

 the touch of autumn here and there is the more 

 visible oaks dotted with brown, horse chestnuts 

 yellow, maples orange, and the bushes beneath red 

 with haws. 



'83 



