THE FOREST OF WILD THYME

One more hour to wander free

With Puck on his unbridled bee

Thro’ heather-forests, leagues of bloom,

Our childhood's maze of scent and sun!

Forbear awhile your notes of doom,

Dear Critics, give me still this one

Swift hour to hunt the fairy gleam

That flutters thro’ the unfettered dream.

It mocks me as it flies, I know:

All too soon the gleam will go;

Yet I love it and shall love

My dream that brooks no narrower bars

Than bind the darkening heavens above,

My Jack o'Lanthorn of the stars:

Then, I'll follow it no more,

I'll light the lamp: I'll close the door.