Poem for January 6, 2034

A path, old tree, goes by thee crooking on,

And through this little gate that claps and bangs

Against thy rifted trunk, what steps hath gone?

Though but a lonely way, yet mystery hangs

Oer crowds of pastoral scenes recordless here.

The boy might climb the nest in thy young boughs

That's slept half an eternity; in fear

The herdsman may have left his startled cows

For shelter when heaven's thunder voice was near;

Here too the woodman on his wallet laid

For pillow may have slept an hour away;

And poet pastoral, lover of the shade,

Here sat and mused half some long summer day

While some old shepherd listened to the lay.