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." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...POSTHUMOUS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SYMPHONIC STUDIES (AFTER ROBERT SCHUMANN) by EMMA LAZARUS BACCALAUREATE by ARCHIBALD MACLEISH GOD AND MY COUNTRY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS CHILD MARGARET by CARL SANDBURG |