I Fail To See What Fun, What

It Was Far In The Sameness Of The Wood; I Was Running With Joy On The Demon's Trail, Though I Knew What I Hunted Was No True God.

For I Have Had Too Much Of Apple-picking:i Am Overtired Of The Great Harvest I Myself Desired.

The Only Way Out Is To Go Through

The Trees That Have It In Their Pent-up Buds To Darken Nature And Be Summer Woods.

The Land Was Ours Before We Were The Land's. She Was Our Land More Than A Hundred Years Before We Were Her People.