Looms the myrtle and drapes the willow.

I ponder the forest and it’s crisp cool air,
and wish on the stars again to be there:
In the shade of the trees, in the arms of the wind,
to fall asleep in this quiet, serene din.

Falls the acorn and sweeps the oak.

I ponder the forest clearing and about myself look,
As I listen to the murmur of the woodland brook,
and remember the fell of it’s cold running water
and wish on my stars to return here later.

Full hangs the moon and to sleep I fall.
Yearning for the forest, and being away from it all.