The stars above, our light on a moonless night,
Smiled warmly at us below;
Bestowing upon you their radiance,
Which off your milk-white skin did glow.
The wood, withall, was darkness,
Save the light which from you spread;
The she-wolf’s pack espied it,
And so, from us, they fled.
After was heard a wailing,
Doubtless a coven of banshees;
Who ran with fear, far from here,
Upon divining your luminosity.
Out of the trees we past,
Where the forest’s brook meets the lake.
Tonight, the kelpie to his home returned;
For your beauty, he could not take.
Under the willow we found ourselves,
And lay beneath his tendrils high.
And the mother blew a fair breeze through;
Our old friend gave a sigh.
Bright eyes draw mine, the deepest blue,
Which ever I have seen;
Battling with fiery red locks, porcelain skin,
And the woeful willows green.
While your head upon my chest did rest,
I turn’d my gaze above;
The stars, the heavens, and all, I thanked,
For sending me such a love.
“It is not so much for its beauty that the forest makes a claim upon men’s hearts, as for that subtle something, that quality of air that emanation from old trees, that so wonderfully changes and renews a weary spirit.”
Robert Louis Stevenson