Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

WOODS ARE STILL by KATHERINE HARRIS BRADLEY

The woods are átill that were so gay at primrose springing,
Through the dry woods the brown field fares are winging,
And I alone of love, of love am singing.


I sing of love to the haggard palmer-worm,
Of love 'mid the crumpled oak-leaves that once were firm,
Laughing, I sing of love at the summer's term,


- Of love, on a path where the snake's cast skin is lying,
Blue feathers on the floor, and no cuckoo flying;
I sing to the echo of my own voice crying.




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