Dora Sigerson Shorter

In a Wood

Hush, ’tis thy voice!
No, but a bird upon the bough
Romancing to its mate, but where art thou
To bid my heart rejoice?

’Tis thy hand, speak!
No, but the branches striking in the wind
Let loose a withered leaf that falls behind
Blown to my cheek.

Hush, thy footfall!
No, ’tis a streamlet hidden in the fern,
Thus from dawn to dark I wait, I learn
Sorrow is all.