The Wood of Wode

WOOD OF WODE

 

No one goes to the Wood of Wode

Save by chance or high design.

There the golden sunbeams glance

Through elder woods untouched by time.

There the bubbling wellsprings flow

In crystal brooks with mossy stones.

There eternal stone-rings loom

Where the dappled deer may roam.

There, sometimes, on sky-less nights,

Flying fires are seen afar.

Sometimes there are hollow horns

Sounding where no hunters are.

There immortal flowers grow:

There moly blooms, and asphodel.

And men may sometimes journey through,

But nothing surely human dwells

Within the border of that wood.

There in hidden hills and dales

Fleeting folk are sometimes seen

As now are only named in tales.

There willows sigh and fir trees dream

And ghostly birches lightly dance.

But no-one goes to the Wood of Wode

Save by high design--or chance.