Here yawns the woodchuck’s dark-dug hole; And there the tunnel of the mole Heaves under weed and flower; A sandy pit-fall here and there The ant-lion digs and lies a-lair And here, for sun and shower, The spider weaves a silvery snare.
The poison-oak’s rank tendrils twine The rock’s south side; the trumpet-vine, With crimson bugles sprinkled, Makes green its eastern side; the west Is rough with lichens; and, gray-pressed Into an angle wrinkled, The hornets hang an oblong nest.
The north is hid from sun and star, And here,--like an Inquisitor Of Faëry Inquisition, Who roots out Elfland heresy,-- Deep in the rock, cowled shadowy And grave as his commission, The owl sits magisterially.
A weed-grown slope, whereon the rain Has washed the brown rocks bare, Leads tangled from a lonely lane Down to a creek’s broad stair Of stone, that, through the solitude, Winds onward to a quiet wood.
An intermittent roof of shade The beech above it throws; Along its steps a balustrade Of beauty builds the rose; In which, a stately lamp of green, At intervals, the cedar’s seen.
The water, carpeting each ledge Of rock that runs across, Glints ’twixt a flow’r-embroidered edge Of ferns and grass and moss; And in its deeps the wood and sky Seem patterns of the softest dye.
Long corridors of pleasant dusk Within the house of leaves It reaches; where, on looms of musk, The ceaseless locust weaves A web of summer; and perfume Trails a sweet gown from room to room.
Green windows of the boughs, that swing, It passes, where the notes Of birds are glad thoughts entering, And butterflies are motes; And now a vista where the day Opens a door of wind and ray.
It is a stairway for all sounds That haunt the woodland sides; On which, boy-like, the Southwind bounds, Girl-like, the sunbeam glides; And, like fond parents, following these, The old-time dreams of rest and peace.
Clouds of the autumn night, Under the hunter’s-moon,-- Ghostly and windy white,-- Whither, like leaves wild strewn, Take ye your stormy flight?
Out of the west, where dusk, From her red window-sill, Leaned with a wand of tusk, Witch-like, and wood and hill Phantomed with mist and musk
Into the east, where morn Sleeps in a shadowy close, Shut with a gate of horn, Round which the dreams she knows Flutter with rose and thorn.