The Way Through The Woods
They
shut
the
road
through
the
woods
Seventy
years
ago.
Weather
and
rain
have
undone
it
again,
And
now
you
would
never
know
There
was
once
a
road
through
the
woods
Before
they
planted
the
trees.
It
is
underneath
the
coppice
and
heath,
And
the
thin
anemones.
Only
the
keeper
sees
That,
where
the
ring-dove
broods,
And
the
badgers
roll
at
ease,
There
was
once
a
road
through
the
woods.
Yet,
if
you
enter
the
woods
Of
a
summer
evening
late,
When
the
night-air
cools
on
the
trout-ringed
pools
Where
the
otter
whistles
his
mate.
(They
fear
not
men
in
the
woods,
Because
they
see
so
few)
You
will
hear
the
beat
of
a
horse's
feet,
And
the
swish
of
a
skirt
in
the
dew,
Steadily
cantering
through
The
misty
solitudes,
As
though
they
perfectly
knew
The
old
lost
road
through
the
woods
.
.
.
But
there
is
no
road
through
the
woods.
