A BALLADE OF WOOL-GATHERING

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!