Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE THRILL OF THE FOREST, by PAUL FORT


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE THRILL OF THE FOREST, by                    
First Line: In the green-lit solitudes of the road beneath the woods as clear,
Last Line: Forest leaves, pierced by the scent of smoke from distant villages!
Subject(s): Fear; Forests; Soul; Woods


In the green-lit solitudes of the road beneath the woods as clear, reflected
light an emerald doth renew -- from moss to canopy roams a white butterfly, but,
-- fleeting memory -- already fades from view:

The impact of my tread, beneath the gathering night, makes mystical the shade,
the pine-trees' towering height, and the road that's lost to sight where my soul
had thought to see the splendour, pale and dead, of the tarn's serenity.

I shrink from every noise. What may the next one prove? And this shrinking dread
I love, and this lurking noise I fear. To sorrows as to joys my soul entire I
give. Would I wish to perish here? Or, hidden, there to live?

What hour endures for aye 'neath the darkling forest cowl? Is it dawn or death
of day, this twilight gloom forlorn? Is it the living souls of trees that from
their boles are drawn, or spectres dread of forest monarchs dead that silently
return their ancient realms to prowl?

To the gesturing fern, the flight of the pheasant I arouse, to the quiet of my
feet, to the murmuring infinite of the silence, to the far gulfs, where star
succeeds to star, that leaves of whispering boughs in countless myriads beat,

to the full moon's frigid ball whence a mute wind doth lull the great frost,
suddenly between dark branches ta'en, like quicksilver my soul divides itself
tonight only immediately to recombine again!

Do I give this soul of mine to sorrows or to joys? I shrink from every noise.
What may the next one prove? And this shrinking dread I love and this lurking
noise I fear. Would I wish to perish here? Or, hidden, there to live?

That which grips me, to caress, then, like a rapier-stroke, through soul and
body goes, is all this: joys or griefs? 'Tis the odour of the moss, and of the
forest leaves, pierced by the scent of smoke from distant villages!





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