Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | December 21, 2009


by Edgar Lee Masters (1868 – 1950)

The Wood (1898)

The wood that echoed to our shout
Is still with winter’s loneliness,
Save when the Storm King is about
With cries of strange distress;
The brook is frozen, the hill is bare,
And gray clouds fill the biting air—
‘Tis melancholy weather.
Yet dreary time shall we not say
Dark as thou art, that thou shalt stay?
For when the springtime comes again,
We shall not be as we were when
We roamed the wood together


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