The Wild Places

Oh, here is joy that cannot be
    In any market bought or sold,
    Where forests beckon fold on fold
In a pale silver ecstasy,
And every hemlock is a spire
Of faint moon-fire.

For music we shall have the chill
   Wild bugle of a vagrant wind
    Seeking for what it cannot find,
A lonely trumpet on the hill,
Or keening in the dear dim white
Chambers of night.

And there are colours in the wild:
    The royal purple of old kings;
    Rose-fire of secret dawn; clear springs
Of emerald in valleys aisled
With red pine stems; and tawny stir
Of dying fir.

~ Lucy Maud Montgomery (1874 - 1942) Canadian writer, poet. The Poetry of ,  Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 1987
And we shall know as lovers do
    The wooing rain, the eternal lure
    Of tricksy brook and beckoning moor,
The hidden laughters that pursue,
As if the gods of elder day
Were here at play.

For these wild places hold their own
    Boon myths of faun and goblin still,
For folk in green if truth were known;
Oh, what an old delightful fear ~
Hush, listen, hear!