Now is my season of unrest,
Now calls the forest, day and night;
And by its pleasant spell obsessed,
My wits go soaring like a kite.
Forgive me if I be not bright,
And pardon if I seem distrait;
Wood-fancies put my wits to flight;—
The woods are but a week away.
Palleth upon my soul the jest,
Falleth upon my pen a blight.
The daily task has lost its zest,
And everything is flat and trite.
There's nothing humorous in sight;
Do n't mind if I am dull to-day.
For every column is a fight
When woods are but a week away.
Woods in the robes of summer dressed —
In greens and grays and browns bedight!
A journey on a river's breast,
Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!...
This end the Voyage of Delight
Waits, in a little wood-bound bay,
A bark canoe, all trim and tight;—
The woods are but a week away!
Dear Reader, there is much to write;
I've many weighty things to say.
But who can write when woods invite,
And woods are but a week away!