Poem April 18, 1903 Issue

The Heart of the Woods

Anon

I hear it beat in morning still
When April skies have lost their gloom,
And through the woods there runs a thrill
That wakes arbutus into bloom.

I hear it throb in sprouting May—

A muffled murmur on the breeze,
Like mellow thunder leagues away,
Or booming voice of distant seas.

In daisied June I catch its roll,
Pulsing through the leafy shade;
And fain I am to reach its goal
And see the drummer unafraid.

Or when the autumn leaves are shed,
And frosts attend the fading year,
Like secret mine sprung by my tread
A covey bursts from hiding near.

Alert of life, of fervent wings,
A compact source of feathered power,
Their drum is music in the spring,
Their flight is music every hour.

Anon.

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