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LEAF-MOULD, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: What's the chief charm of woods - besides mere trees?
Last Line: "here is perennial joy fed rich on death."
Subject(s): Forests; Leaves; Trees; Woods


What's the chief charm of woods -- besides mere trees?
Not tang of balsam; not the gray-voiced croon
Of pine-harps, with a bird-call flashing bold
Against it; not the fingered light on moss
And flowers that play "I spy," courted in turn
By bourgeois bees and foppish butterflies;
Not rabbits dodging with their fluffy tails,
Or the striped chipmunks either, jauntily
Rehearsing family secrets. No, I think
It's leaf-mould. Only fancy if the trail
Were asphalt, or macadam! Leaf-mould gives
The heart-beat of the mystery, all the sap
And vigor of centuries underneath your soles
At every buoyant motion. Stretch your thighs
And run your bravest, leaping root and stone,
Rising and plunging on the mounded trail
To float as on delicious tropic waves.
So will the leaf-mould be transformed again
To living rapture. Leaf-mould, damp and dark,
The wreck of woodland life -- you vent a sigh,
For the lost green and gold, the frail slain flowers,
For balm dispersed, for happy songsters dumb
With unrecorded fame; but from this mould
Is born new wonder: fragrance, color, song,
All freshly woven by the patient years.
When I tread leaf-mould, a dark thrill of strength
And awe speaks through me like a tactile voice:
"Here is perennial joy fed rich on death."





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