I arrow-wood 



I HEAR THE WOODLANDS CALLING 



I hear the woodlands calling, and their red is like the blare 



Of trumpets in the air. 

 Where rebel Autumn plants her tents and crowns her gypsy hair. 

 I hear her beauty calling glad, with crimson and with gold, 



As oft it called of old; 

 And I must forth and greet her there and clasp her close and hold. 

 As yesterday, again today, my heart will run to hear, 



The gypsy wanderer, 

 Through scarlet of the berry-pod and purple of the burr. 

 The vines that vision forth her cheeks shall tell me where she lies. 



Soft gazing at the skies; 

 And I will steal upon her dreams and look into her eyes. 

 The sumach that repeats her lips shall tell me where she smiles. 



Who still my heart beguiles, 

 And I will speak her face to face and lounge with her for miles. 

 A riot and a tangle there, a blur of gold and gray; 



She surely went this way — 

 Or, so it seems, the maples cry, the cloudy asters say. 

 Oh, I must up and strike the trail, that often I have gone, 



At sunset and at dawn, 

 Where all the beauty of the world puts all her splendor on. 

 I hear her bugles on the hills; I see her banners blowing, 



And all her campfires glowing, — 

 The campfires of her dreams, — and I — I must be up and going. 



Madison Caziein 



From The Poet, The Fool and the Faeries 

 Used by permission of Small, Maynard & Company 



49 



