These little woods I live and tend;
The master of a humble end.
I stroll through grasses freshly mowed
And gather up the wooden load
That daily heats my quaint abode.
Each morning finds me close at hand,
With fingers fit for wide demand,
Which toil ‘neath the golden sun,
While striking every longing dumb
That speaks of all I could become.
With work comes rest in simple things,
That need but small imaginings;
No solemn thoughts to far unwind
That restless soul of humankind
Who mourns for something left behind.
At night, I stroll the dusty routes,
And solemnly, my life’s pursuits
Seem tame against the wild plain,
Idyllic in the sprinkling rain,
Convicting me of a nameless pain.
My feet explore I know not where,
But sends my soul to wander there –
Beyond the fold of birch and pine,
Where all the thoughts of man refine
To understand the grand design.
I’d lose myself in such a realm
Beyond the swaying oak and elm –
But something inward lulls me home,
And turns my feet from where they roam,
Toward the low-lit pathway home.
How oft my feet have longed to stray
Further down that distant way –
To seek true life, true love, true peace
And find those dreams that never cease.
There must be dreams that never cease…