When ye turn homeward sighing
For the beauty that ye leave,
'Neath the hushed sentinels that guard
Your little wood at eve,—
Those still grey watchers, splashed with gold,
Facing the sun's last hold;

Know ye, when darkness draws
Her curtain of dreams athwart
Your window, and the cool of sleep
Floods o'er your tired thought.
How fares it with the little wood.
Left in her solitude ?

Peering amid the boughs
The yellow moon treads low
Her way to rest, the winds of night
Whispering before her go ;
The light-stirred leaves on each tall tree
Make rustle drowsily.

All peaceful still as ye,
Dreaming, may image it ?
Lo, from the moon-fiecked branches glide,
Like giant moths aflit.
Dim forms, whose heavy, flapping flight
Sounds not upon the night.

Murder ! their round eyes blaze,
A sickle each fierce beak
That harvests blood ; they swoop, they call
With long exultant shriek;
And shrill ! shrill ! shrill ! the anguished cry
Of small soft things that die.

Murder ! in quick lean stealth
SUm ghostly terrors ply
Their silent trade from brake to brake
Where glimmering dewdrops lie;
And where they go, blood sullies both
Fragrance and undergrowth.

Gently the dead leaves stir.
They are a shield outspread
For furry morsels ; one false move—
Behold life forefeited!
And should the hunter's spirit fail.
His plucked bones tell the tale.

Oh tragic little wood !
Beneath the night's calm breath,
Urgent among your grey old trees.
Passes the wizard Death,
And all must in that play contend
Which has one only end.