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A Ballade Of Wool-gathering Post by :slssolutions Category :Poems Author :Bert Leston Taylor Date :October 2011 Read :1914

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A Ballade Of Wool-gathering

Now is my season of unrest,
Now calls the forest, day and night;
And by its pleasant spell obsessed,
My wits go soaring like a kite.
Forgive me if I be not bright,
And pardon if I seem distrait;
Wood-fancies put my wits to flight;--
The woods are but a week away.

Palleth upon my soul the jest,
Falleth upon my pen a blight.
The daily task has lost its zest,
And everything is flat and trite.
There's nothing humorous in sight;
Don't mind if I am dull to-day.
For every column is a fight
When woods are but a week away.

Woods in the robes of summer dressed--
In greens and grays and browns bedight!
A journey on a river's breast,
Beneath the wedded blue-and-white!...
This end the Voyage of Delight
Waits, in a little wood-bound bay,
A bark canoe, all trim and tight;--
The woods are but a week away!


L'Envoi

Dear Reader, there is much to write;
I've many weighty things to say.
But who can write when woods invite,
And woods are but a week away!


(The end)
Bert Leston Taylor's poem: Ballade Of Wool-Gathering

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